Flight to the Lonesome Place (6 page)

Ronnie sat up. “You—you're talking about
Bernardo
Montoya?”

“That's right. She must have told you about him. I bought the place from their father, old Carlos, just before he died. In fact, I helped Carlos escape from Santo Domingo. He'd given up his American citizenship, you see, and gone there to live. It's a very curious story.”

It was, indeed, a story of incredible events, in which poor Ana María Rosalita was the victim. Ronnie's mind was reeling with it when he finally reached the boat deck in search of her.

He was disappointed to find only the Señora Bretón, who was taking her siesta in a deck chair. As he slipped past her, heading for the walkway leading around to the other side of the ship, he was startled to see how sleep could change her. The handsome features had turned cruel and ugly, as if some hidden evil were now exposed. He shuddered, and was suddenly thankful he wasn't in the tiny girl's place. His future seemed unpleasant enough, but at least he was on his own.

At the edge of the starboard deck he paused. Seeing only the plump Johnsons stretched out in their chairs, he retreated to an angle in the walkway and stood looking at the great sweep of bright-blue water stretching astern. While part of his mind drank it in hungrily, another part thought of what Captain Anders had just told him.

“It was like this,” the captain began, explaining first about the cottage.” I'd been renting the place from old Carlos for years, but he wouldn't sell it to me. Then he practically gave it to me after I helped him. In Santo Domingo he became a bigwig until they had one of those political upsets. Then he had to get out in a hurry or be killed.”

“And you got him out?”

“Yes, but that part of it was nothing. I was on vacation at the time, and all I had to do was rent a fast boat and pick him up one night. The big deal was getting Ana María Rosalita safely away. Somehow those natives got the idea she was a witch—”

“A
witch?
”

“Yeah, and a black one, which is bad. They don't mind white witches, the good kind. But a black one …” The captain shook his head. “I think the old man's enemies spread the tale about her. Anyway, he tried to slip her out of the country, but she was recognized and a mob took after her. If it hadn't been for that young Negro—Black Luis, he calls himself—she wouldn't be here now. That fellow—he can't be much older than you—managed to steal a little open fish boat, and he sailed her all the way across Mona Passage to Puerto Rico. Old Carlos lived long enough to take her to New Orleans and put her in school, but he died before he could do anything about her citizenship. It's a doggone shame.”

“What's wrong with her citizenship?”

“She hasn't got any!”

“But that's crazy—”

“Of course it's crazy, but that's how it is. She was born in Santo Domingo, same as her mother, so she ought to be a citizen of the Dominican Republic. But they won't give her a passport because they claim her mother was Irish, and her father an American.”

“Was her mother really Irish?”

“Irish parentage, yes. Been dead for years. Her father was automatically an American citizen because he was born in Puerto Rico, but he renounced his citizenship when he went to Santo Domingo. When they ran him out, he became a man without a country. He died before he could change it, and that makes Ana María Rosalita a girl without a country.”

“What—what in the world's going to happen to her when we reach Puerto Rico?”

The captain looked grave. “If I know Bernardo, he'll see that that devilish aunt of his takes her straight on to Santo Domingo. I'm sure the Señora can get her in without trouble. But once there, that will be the end of her. She'll simply disappear.”

“But—but, golly, can't something be done to help her?”

“It's got me beat. I'm going to retire next month, and I'll have time to look into it. But that doesn't help matters now.” The big man shook his head. “Puerto Rico's like a foreign country. No one but Bernardo himself could really straighten the thing out. He has the power and the money. But the fellow is a rascal …”

Ronnie, looking thoughtfully astern, had forgotten his own troubles entirely when he was aware of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw Ana María Rosalita hurrying toward him.

“Boy Blue, you were so
long
with the captain,” she began worriedly. “Surely you had no trouble?”

“Oh, no,” he told her. “It was just that I couldn't fool him. I had to tell him everything. And I'm glad I did. He turned out to be a real friend.”

“Oh, I
knew
he would be. You see, he's one of my two friends.”

“Is the other one Black Luis?”

The tiny girl nodded. “Did the captain tell you what happened?”

“Yes,” Ronnie replied soberly. “And now I know you're in a worse spot than I am. I've been trying to figure out what to do.”

“But I decided last night I'll run away,” she said quickly. “As I told you, I thought and thought for hours—first about you, then about me. If you can get into a private school—”

“No,” he interrupted. “The captain had the same idea. Only, I don't believe I'd better.”

“But you'd be safe—”

“Maybe. Though I think I'll be just as safe in that beach cottage he got from your father.”

“Oh, no!” she said instantly. “Don't go there!”

“Why not?”

“Because it's the wrong place to hide. I
know!
It was the first place I thought of, because it's so near Papa's old villa, where Bernardo lives. And of course I wanted you there, for now you're my third friend, and I'd feel so much better knowing you were near. But I was just being selfish. You must not go there.”

He looked at her curiously. His main reason for deciding to go to the beach cottage was so he would be near enough to help her. For surely, if the captain was right, she was going to need all the help she could get.

“I don't understand,
camarada
,” he said finally. “What's wrong with it?”

Her dark eyes grew round and fearful. “Boy Blue, every time I think of you going to the cottage, your trouble sign turns almost black. That means something terrible will happen.”

He looked grimly at the vessel's wake, flowing into the distance. “Then I'd better stay away,” he muttered. “Only, I don't want to go to a school—”

“Oh, but you don't have to,” she hastened to say. “I've another plan, just in case. You must find Black Luis.”

“Black Luis?” he repeated, startled.

“Yes. That's what I am going to do if I have to run away from Bernardo.”

“Where is he?”

“I—I don't know exactly,” she admitted. “But he can always be found by the right person—someone like you or me, or Captain Anders. You see, he's had to go underground since Papa died.”

“Underground? You mean he's hiding?”

“Of course he's hiding, silly. If Bernardo finds him, he'll be sent back to Santo Domingo, which would be awful. Papa gave him a little piece of land for helping me, and he's hiding on it with someone named Marlowe. I think that greedy Bernardo wants the land back. Just why, I don't know. It—it's been so hard for Black Luis and me to keep in touch with each other. To get a letter to him I have to send it to Nicky Robles, who works at the beach near Córcega. Then Nicky has to take it around the point and put it in the hollow of an old sea grape tree. The only trouble is, well—”

She turned and looked at him uncertainly, her lower lip caught between her small white teeth. “It's the stamps,” she said. “Black Luis doesn't have money to buy them, so I would always send him some when I could. But we haven't been able to write to each other for a long time because Bernardo cut off my allowance.”

“Cut off your allowance! But why?”

“Because he's a stinker. Someday, if he isn't careful, I'll wish him warts, and he'll break out all over with them. Millions of warts.”

Ronnie eyed her in disbelief. “You can't really do that, can you?”

Her chin came up. “Certainly I can! I haven't tried it yet, because it's such an awful thing to do to anyone. It should be kept for emergencies. But I've been tempted. Oh, it was so embarrassing to be without a penny, so that I couldn't even pay back favors I owed the other girls. And how I wanted some pralines! Imagine going to school in New Orleans and being too poor to buy a single praline!”

It was mainly a growing amazement that made Ronnie shake his head. Suddenly he asked, “Do you really like pralines so well?”

“Oh, I love them. They're my favorite sweet.”

“Then wait till I get back. I've a whole box of them in my bag.”

He hastened around the deck, and went inside to his stateroom. The door, which he had left unlocked but closed, was open now, and he entered so quickly that the cabin steward was taken momentarily by surprise.

Josip was standing between the bunks, absorbed in the precious copy of
Time and Duality
. The steward looked up, and his thin lips parted briefly. But almost instantly the lips closed and twisted into a smile.

“You must pardon me, young sir, but I am a great reader, and I simply cannot resist a book when I see one lying around. This one seems very interesting. Very interesting indeed.” Josip closed it, placed it on the bunk, then picked up a bundle of soiled towels and started out. On the threshold he paused briefly and said, “I will bring you some ice water later, young sir.”

Ronnie said nothing. His swift anger had given way to a feeling of sickness in his stomach. Before going to lunch, he had carefully put the copy of
Time and Duality
away in his zipper bag.

Josip had deliberately opened the bag—obviously to search for something that would prove what he already suspected. And Josip had found it.

The book had been of interest to him for one reason only. The name “Ronnie Cleveland” was written on the flyleaf.

5

THE LAST BEEHIVE

IT WAS UPSETTING ENOUGH to realize that Josip knew his secret and probably would try and profit from it, but with it went the growing fear of what would be waiting for him when he reached San Juan. To these concerns, as the vessel plowed steadily southeastward, there was added a physical discomfort that threatened to become serious. It was his wig.

He had never been forced to wear it for long in a tropical climate. It had been designed merely to hide his own hair, which was thick and curly, and he had seldom minded its tightness in air-conditioned buildings. But here at sea it was becoming a torture to keep it on for more than an hour at a time.

On the second day out, when his furiously hot and itching scalp had twice driven him to his stateroom to plunge his head into a basin of cool water, Ana María Rosalita offered a solution.

“If you'll let me trim your hair a little,” she said, “maybe it will feel better under the wig. You've just
got
to keep it hidden till you find Black Luis. Then he and Marlowe can do something about it. They're awfully clever about all sorts of things.”

She brought scissors and a comb to his stateroom and started to work. But as the first blue curl fell to the floor, she wailed tearfully, “Oh, I just can't cut them. They're so beautiful!”

“Beautiful my eye,” he muttered. “I'm sick of 'em! Whack 'em off!”

After that she surprised him by giving him an expert trim, which relieved the discomfort of the wig without making it too loose. When she had finished, she studied him critically a moment, then suddenly giggled.

“So I'm funny,” he grumbled. “What is it?”

“I'm not laughing at
you
, silly. I'm laughing at
us
.”

“Well, I guess we are a sort of funny pair,
camarada
.”

“Funny!
¡Madre mía!
Here we are, just a couple of little kids, people would say—people that don't know us. Because we're smaller than we should be, and look younger than we are. And we act like kids most of the time. But we're not, really. Not inside.”

“No,” he admitted. “We're not.”

“Inside,” she said, “you're grown-up and know more than lots of the smartest people. And me, I'm old, old,
old
inside, and know things you'll
never
know. And why? I'll tell you a secret: I really
did
have an Irish grandmother. She was a daughter of the Shee.”

Ronnie, carefully picking up blue curls and putting them into a bag to be thrown overboard, jerked his head up at the word. The tiny girl said, “I don't know how it's spelled, but that's how it's pronounced. Have you ever heard of them?”

“Sure, I've read about 'em,” he said.” The name was spelled S-i-d-h-e in the book, but pronounced ‘Shee.' They are sort of mythical Celtic beings who were supposed to have all kinds of special powers.”

“My grandmother had special powers, and she wasn't mythical,” the girl retorted. “I inherited what I have from her. And I really
can
make people have warts.”

“I didn't say you couldn't,” he told her.

“No, but you thought it, and that's practically the same as saying it.”

“Okay. Let's say you have special powers. Then why can't you use them to keep people like Bernardo from hurting you and sending you away?”

“Because I'm too
little
,” she said. “I can't get up enough—what's the word?”

“Steam?” he suggested.

She giggled. “That's good enough. Steam. When I grow bigger I'll have more steam, and I'll be able to flatten Bernardo, though of course I wouldn't hurt him, even though I hate him. My grandmother said I must never use my power to really hurt or take advantage of someone, or I'll lose it. Though of course it's all right to help others. Last year, when Marlowe and Black Luis were trying to get me out of Santo Domingo, I practically wore myself to a frazzle—”