Flight to the Lonesome Place (9 page)

Presently, glancing back out of the rear window, he made an unpleasant discovery. The bus was being followed.

Ronnie studied the following car for some time, hoping it would come close enough to give him a better look at the driver. But it never did. Other cars passed, but this one lagged behind; when the bus made a stop it pulled to the side of the road and waited until the bus was on its way again.

Finally Ronnie hunched down in his seat, and began gnawing unhappily on his lip while he considered this new situation. The following car wasn't a taxi. If it was a rental job, Josip couldn't be driving, because it would have been impossible to rent a car so quickly after leaving the ship. The two gunmen could be in it, but more likely it was Peter at the wheel. And Josip could be with him, acting as a guide.

How was he going to leave the bus without being seen?

His best chance, he reasoned, would be to ride on in to Mayagüez, then take a cab back to the area of the captain's cottage. Only, it would be dark by the time he returned. How could he ever find Black Luis' last beehive at night?

At that moment, peering ahead at the road curving to the right around endless cane fields, he glimpsed the sea again in place of the mountains he expected to find there. The mountains were to the left. Suddenly he realized the bus was not following the main route to Mayagüez, as he remembered it on the map. Instead it was circling around a great headland to take in several little coastal towns. As he closed his eyes and visualized the map, he saw that soon he would be going through Rincón and Córcega, and that shortly afterward he would actually be passing by the captain's cottage and the Beach of the Three Brothers.

This tantalizing fact, which had escaped him until now, brought him upright in his seat, a plan forming in his mind.

At the first stop past Rincón, depending on the position of the bus and the size of the crowd around it, he would slip off and try to make it to the nearest cover. His followers wouldn't be expecting that, and his smallness would be a great advantage. If he could reach a cane field or a bit of woods unseen, he would be safe.

They were finally past Rincón, and the bus was slowing when abruptly it began to rain. It roared straight down as the bus stopped at a hut near the side of the road. The small crowd of onlookers ran laughing for shelter. Ronnie, who had started to get off behind one of the passengers, retreated hastily to his seat. The following car, dim in the downpour, had crept much closer this time.

Ronnie had long been aware that the high mountains were lost in clouds, but he had thought nothing of it. And though he had been in the tropics, he had no idea what a tropical rain can be like, even after the rainy season is supposed to be over.

It slackened for a while, so that he could make out the following car. Then it began to pour in earnest. Windows came down in the bus, and the interior was suddenly stifling. The car behind them became invisible until the next stop, when it drew up so close that leaving in front of it was unthinkable.

Ronnie despaired. But even as the bus got under way again, he was almost frantically considering and discarding new plans. The thought of being forced to stay aboard until Mayagüez was suddenly frightening. But what could he do in such a rain as this?

He had never seen anything like it, and would not have believed it could pour any harder. But all at once, incredibly, it turned into a thundering deluge that obliterated everything from sight. The bus slowed, crept to the side of the road, and stopped.

It took Ronnie only an instant to realize this was his chance, but he sat motionless for five long, tense seconds before he could fight down his terror of what he had to do. Then he jumped from his seat and ran to the front of the bus.

“Quick!” he cried. “Let me out!”

The driver eyed him in astonishment. “Are you crazy?”

“I've
got
to get out!” Ronnie almost shrieked. “Hurry!”

“You must be demented. In that case, perhaps it is better to have you out than in.” The driver shrugged and opened the door.

Ronnie swallowed and stepped forth into the deluge.

It was like plunging into a roaring cataract, and he was instantly soaked. The bus vanished completely after the first two steps and he had to feel his way off the road. Then his feet slipped in mud, and he went tumbling down a slope he would not have believed was there. Somehow he managed to cling to his bag, which cushioned the shock when his downward progress was abruptly stopped by a tree. Fear drove him blindly on. It was only after he had groped through a tangle of tropical growth to an open space that he began to feel safe.

He stopped, tore off his glasses and the hated wig, and raised his head to the slashing rain. Never had water felt so pleasantly cool, or tasted so good as it poured down his throat. He drank his fill standing. Finally he removed most of his clothes and held them out in his hands until they were washed clean. When the rain slackened he put them on again, and tucked the wig under his belt. He could make out his surroundings now, and he started hesitantly forward.

After a few yards he stopped, uncertain. The sea had to be somewhere ahead, but he was in up-and-down country and rising directly in front of him was a jungle-covered slope. Then he made out a bamboo fence on the right, and a vague path beside it. Eagerly he followed the path for a while, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of huts beyond the fence.

To be seen by anyone now was to be remembered, and that could be extremely dangerous. For when Peter, or whoever was in the car, discovered he was not on the bus at Mayagüez, the search would surely swing back in this direction. Every poor
jíbaro
, or farm worker, in the area would be questioned.

Ronnie carefully retraced his steps. There seemed to be only one other way to go, and that was up a winding path climbing a ridge on the left. With some misgivings he started upward.

By the time he reached the crest the rain had stopped and the sun was struggling to break through the clouds ahead. He gasped, for the sea lay directly in front of him. From this height it seemed to be almost at his feet. A distant plume of factory smoke marked the city of Mayagüez, far off to the left. On the right—

He stiffened as a perfect beehive shape took form in the clearing mist. It was at the very end of the ridge on which he stood, and it was the only such shape to be seen.

The sight of it sent him hurrying breathlessly down the path on the western side of the ridge.

The last beehive—for surely it could be nothing else—was farther away than it had first appeared. Long after he reached the rocky beach he was still struggling to get to it before the sun went down. Once the sea had swallowed the sun, the tropic night would follow swiftly. The thought of being caught here in the dark, all alone, was a little frightening.

He was almost at the base of the beehive when he found the way blocked by a tidal creek overgrown with mangroves. At the sight of the black water and the tangled growth in it, his courage almost deserted him. Then, noticing the sand bar in the clear salt water beyond the mouth of the place, he waded grimly out to it and circled to the other side.

Hardly a minute's walk farther on, near the edge of a tiny sandy beach, he found the sea grape tree.

That it was a sea grape he knew instantly by its round leaves, and spreading foliage above a low, gnarled trunk. It was the biggest sea grape he had ever seen, and unquestionably the one Ana María Rosalita had told him about. For it was hollow, and in the hollow were a coil of new fishing line and a package of hooks, and what seemed to be a message scrawled upon a scrap of wrapping paper.

In sudden rising excitement Ronnie turned and stared at the little mountain he had come so far to find. The only sign of a cave was the familiar white of exposed limestone showing through the tropic growth about a hundred feet up. It was too shallow a spot to give protection to anyone or form a hiding place. Then, to the left of the mountain, a broken fence caught his attention. On the higher ground beyond it, in a ruined garden, the fire-blackened remains of a small dwelling protruded above brown and wilted banana stalks.

Ronnie studied the ruins. Frowning, he turned back to the beach. His excitement was changing to uneasiness. Something had happened here, something unpleasant. And it hadn't been very long ago. Where was Black Luis now?

The sun had already touched the horizon. Ronnie swallowed and sank down on a rock, wondering what to do.

It was the time for crickets and katydids to begin their evening chorus, but instead of anything familiar an entirely different sound began to rise around him. He had been hearing it intermittently for the past hour, but had paid little attention to it. Now it swelled from all sides, growing in intensity as the sun slid into the sea—a high, liquid call from countless thousands of invisible throats:
co-kee! co-kee! co-keee! co-keee! ma-reee! co-keeee! ma-ree! co-keee!

The very cheerfulness of it made him momentarily forget his troubles. He was wondering what sort of creatures could be making such a pleasant racket, when a curiously sharp little voice demanded, “What are you doing here, boy? Don't you know this is private property?”

Ronnie sprang to his feet and stared about him. There was no one in sight. In fact, there was not even a place anywhere near where a person could be hidden. Yet the voice had been very close.

“W-where are you?” he gulped.

“I'm asking the questions!” the voice snapped imperiously. “Answer me!”

“I—I'm looking for Black Luis,” Ronnie stammered.

“Ha! And who told you you'd find him here?”

“Ana María Rosalita told me.”

“Oh!” There was a silence, then the voice demanded, “Why did she tell you—and why are you looking for him?”

Ronnie ran his tongue over dry lips. This was the most incredible conversation he had ever had in his life. The voice seemed to be in constant movement, though it was never more than a few paces away. Yet he could see no one.

“Don't stand there like a dummy,” the voice said sharply. “Speak up!”

“It—it's a little hard speaking to an invisible person who keeps moving around me. Are—are you Marlowe?”

“Who told you my name?”

“Ana María Rosalita. She said if I came here, you'd see me and take me to Black Luis. I—I've got to find a place a hide.”

“From what? Are you a lawbreaker?”

“No. But there are people who want to do me in because they think I know too much. I—I'm Ronnie Cleveland, the Blue Boy.”

“Ulp! Say that again? The
Blue Boy
?”

“Yes. I met Ana María Rosalita on the boat that brought us from New Orleans. She helped me get away. She—”

“
¡Madre mía!
She's back already? On the
Cristobal Colón?
”

“Yes. We docked early this afternoon. We—”

“Praise be! Oh, it will be so good to see her again! I can't begin to tell you how we've felt here, with her so far away. She wrote she was coming back, but we didn't know when the boat.… Oh, I must tell Black Luis—” The voice, breathless and excited, broke off abruptly. There was a pause, then it snapped coldly, “But how do I know you're the Blue Boy? Can you prove it?”

“Haven't you ever seen a picture of me?”

“No. I've never been interested in entertainers.”

“Then look at my hair,” Ronnie ground out. “I've been hiding it under a wig so I wouldn't be recognized. But the wig's off now. Can't you see the color of it?”

There was a moment's silence. Suddenly the voice exclaimed, “
¡Hombre!
It
is
blue! I thought it was just the evening light on it. Name of a name, you really
are
the Blue Boy!”

“Right now,” Ronnie muttered, “I sure wish I weren't.” Then he added a little desperately, “Please, I—I've had about all I can take today. I've been chased and someone tried to shoot me, and I've been followed all the way from San Juan. I just managed to escape off the bus and run away in the rain. I've finally reached the end of nowhere, and now I'm forced to talk to an—an invisible something—”

“You're
not
at the end of nowhere,” the sharp voice interrupted. “You're at the beginning of somewhere. And don't think you're the only one with troubles. We have them too. What's more, I'm
not
an invisible something. I happen to be entirely visible, and much too exposed for comfort. That's bad enough. But on top of it you're trying to make me reveal a secret known only to two people, and I'm not liking it a bit.”

“But—but what—”

“No! I'll
not
reveal it! You know too much already. You may call me Marlowe, but don't ask any questions about me. If you want to see Black Luis, turn around and face the mountain, and start walking. I'll tell you where to go.”

Ronnie felt a cold prickling at the back of his neck. He swallowed and picked up his bag. “I—I saw some things that must have been left for you two in that hollow tree. Don't you want to get them first?”

“
You
get them,” Marlowe ordered. “Then head for the mountain. Do exactly as I tell you, and
don't look back!
”

7

BLACK LUIS

IT HAD BEEN A VERY BAD DAY. Though Ronnie had experienced worse ones, none had been so strangely jolting. The horribly real dream, and the following reality of it, had been hard enough to take. Such things just don't happen to intelligent people with level heads. The fact that they had happened was evidence that he must have a cog loose somewhere. Of course he hadn't swallowed any of that silly stuff which poor Ana María Rosalita was all wrapped up in, so he felt the cog couldn't have slipped too much. But with this final offering of the day he wasn't so sure.

As he took the things from the tree, he tried to steal careful glances from the corners of his eyes, but he saw no more than he had before. No one was in sight. And few creatures but a chipmunk could have managed to hide behind the dappled rocks that littered the area just above the beach. There were no chipmunks on the island, and the only wild animal, he remembered, was the mongoose, which had been imported from India. He had never heard of a chipmunk that could talk, and he doubted if a mongoose would be any better at it.