Hawke

“Staniel Cay Yacht Club fits that description,” Ambrose said. “Amen Lillywhite, the barman there, serves a notable concoction called the Suffering Bastard, which I’ve found to be extremely serious.”

“Let’s go, then!” Vicky said. “How do we get there?”

“Ain’t far. See all them Christmas lights hanging in the trees on that island over there? Only a couple of miles. We could swim it,” Stokely said. “But Mr. Congreve, he old-fashioned. He likes to take the launch.”

“Can we go, Ambrose? Will you and Stoke escort me?”

“Of course, my dear, we would be delighted. Stokely, would you please ring down to Brian at the launch deck and arrange a transfer?”

“It’s all happening as we speak,” Stoke said.

“Should we see if Alex would like to join us?” Ambrose said.

“Yes, of course,” Vicky said. “Might cheer him up. He’s having an awful night.”

“Ah. A bad night,” Ambrose said, looking at her. “Bad dreams, no doubt.” Vicky nodded.

“That old joint going to be jumping long about now,” Stoke said. “There’s a junkanoo on tonight. You listen very carefully, you can almost hear the music floating over the water.”

“Junkanoo? What’s that?” Vicky asked.

“Junkanoo’s where a cat can get so rum-brained his eyes and his brains stop communicating to each other and the cat don’t know half how ugly the person he dancing with is,” Stoke said, getting up and going over to the intercom phone. “That’s junkanoo,” he said over his shoulder. “Might cheer us all up. I’ll go arrange the launch.”

“Sounds pretty good to me, Stoke,” Vicky called after him.

33

“Tell me about Alex’s bad night,” Congreve said quietly, once he and Vicky were alone. Stokely had gone below to arrange the launch and they were still sitting under the stars.

And she did.

“You say ‘panic attacks,’ ” Ambrose asked, concern furrowing his brow. “How many?”

“I’d say this is his second or third,” Vicky said. “He passed out tonight. Not good. I’m hoping they are panic attacks, Ambrose. We could be looking at something serious.”

“How serious?”

“If I had to hazard a guess, epilepsy. Possibly meningitis. Worst-case scenario, a cranial tumor. I want him to get a complete blood workup tomorrow.”

“He seems in perfect health.”

“Seems being the operative word given his symptoms.”

“Stick with panic attacks a moment,” Congreve said. “Alex was in these islands once before. When he was a very small boy. A terrible thing happened. His parents were murdered in cold blood.”

“Good God. He’s always been so circular and oblique about his childhood. I just assumed he’d been adopted and didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t ever push it.”

Ambrose looked at her closely and made a decision. Discretion here was pointless. She was a doctor. And Alex was in love with her.

“It’s worse, Victoria. Alex was an eyewitness to the murders. He has buried this horror successfully for most of his life. I think returning here, to the exact place where it happened, is bringing the submerged images floating to the surface.”

“How horrible.”

“Unimaginable.”

“All I want to do is help him, Ambrose,” Vicky said.

“That’s all any of us want to do, dear girl. You can perhaps bring some of your professional gifts to bear. I know that some of your work involves children with problems. I am certainly trying to utilize my own experience.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my dear, that I’ve been trying to solve these blasted murders for nearly three decades. On my own, of course. The case was consigned to the Yard’s dead file long ago. Sometime in the early eighties.”

“Does Alex know what you’re doing?”

“On some level, perhaps. We’ve never discussed it.”

“Do you think it’s wise? Proceeding without his knowledge, I mean?”

“It was the only way. Recently, I’ve made some considerable progress. If I begin to get close, really close, I’m going to tell him everything.”

“Be careful how you do that, please, Ambrose.”

Congreve gave her a look suggesting impertinence on her part.

“Sorry. That was very stupid of me. From what I’ve seen you are the very soul of delicacy and discretion. Shall I go fetch Alex and we’ll all go to the junkanoo?”

“By all means, dear girl, by all means!” Ambrose said, and Vicky raced down the wide and gently curving set of steps that led to Alex’s quarters in the stern.

As predicted, the Yacht Club was a seething organic mass of sweating, writhing bodies. Flaming torches mounted high on the walls painted the intertwined mass below with flickering yellows, blacks, and oranges. On a small bandstand toward the rear, a trio of dreadlocked Rastafarians was deep into some vintage Marley.

The atmosphere was a potent admixture of sweat, heavy rhythm, and sweet-smelling ganja; the whole crowd looked explosive, as if you threw a match at them, the junkanoo might blow sky high.

Vicky and her two escorts fought their way to the bar and miraculously found three stools side-by-side. Alex, despite Vicky’s pleadings, had begged her to go on without him. He even asked her to keep an eye on Congreve lest his old chum be “overserved,” as sometimes happened. His mood seemed much improved, and Vicky finally relented, leaving him to a good night’s sleep.

A bare-chested bartender appeared and was introduced to her by Ambrose as Amen. It was instantly apparent to Vicky that Amen and Ambrose seemed to go way back. Ambrose ordered them two Suffering Bastards, and Stoke ordered himself a caffeine-free Diet Coke. The drinks arrived immediately and Vicky took a deep pull on the straw.

It was a potent elixir, a potion easily underestimated by Vicky, who, despite her self-diagnosis, was still suffering the aftereffects of the explosion.

Polishing off this delicious poison, she debated ordering another and quickly gave in. As Amen served her, Vicky surveyed the overheated scene and said to no one in particular, “This place reeks of sex.”

Stoke laughed and said, “How would you know that, Doc? Little sleepy-time-down-South gal like you?”

She sipped deeply from the cocktail and regarded Stoke with laughing eyes.

“Just because I know what something smells like, doesn’t mean I know what it looks like.”

Stoke laughed again, and she noticed that a beautiful dark-ski

“This is Gloria,” Stoke said, and Vicky shook her hand. “We met this afternoon down by the beach. Girl was fishin’ and obviously didn’t know what she was doin’, so old Stoke, he gave her some professional fishin’ lessons. Gal was in serious need of instruction. Girl caught herself a fine fish after that. Big damn fish.”

“How big?” Vicky asked, smiling.

He held his hands about two feet apart and Gloria laughed.

“Is Stokely a friend of yours?” Gloria asked Vicky, with the tiniest bit of suspicion in her eyes.

“Shoot, he’s a friend of everybody’s,” Vicky said, sipping her drink. “But I’m pretty sure he likes you a whole lot better than the rest of us.” She giggled at that, which was odd because it wasn’t even slightly fu

“I work here,” Gloria said to Vicky. “Tonight’s my night off, but if there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

“I know what I need,” Stoke said. “I need to go fishin’ in the moonlight!” Gloria laughed.

“You tink they bitin’ tonight, Mr. Jones?” Gloria said.

“I hope so,” Stoke said. “Long as they ain’t bitin’ too damn hard.”

Laughing, the two of them quickly disappeared into the crowd.

“How about a dance, Constable?” Vicky said to Ambrose, who was swirling his drink around his glass with his finger.

“I have the notion under serious consideration. I was thinking of perhaps climbing up onto the bar,” Ambrose said, “and demonstrating the traditional Highland Fling. Do you think that’s unwise?”