Fleming went back into the house, and all but ran into Cesar as he came out of the dining room, his arms laden with crockery and glasses. “Oh! Sorry, Cesar.”

  “Pardon me, sah,” said Cesar.

  Watching Cesar maneuver with his burdens, Fleming felt a surge of uncharacteristic gratitude to his houseman. “You do me well, Cesar.”

  “Thank you, sah,” said Cesar, continuing along the hallway. “It’s good to have you back, sah.”

  “And Joshua—how’s Joshua?” Fleming asked.

  “He’s busy with his studies, sah,” said Cesar, almost to the kitchen. “He brought the chicken from Bathsheba, then went back home to study.”

  “Very good. He’s a clever lad.” Fleming considered the matter, then added, “He could go far, if he puts his mind to it.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so, sah.”

  Fleming ambled up the stairs, letting his thoughts drift. “You give my remembrances to Bathsheba,” he called out as he reached the top of the flight.

  Cesar had to raise his voice to reply, “I’ll do that, sah, and thank you.”

  Fleming went to his bedroom, pulling a lighter from his pocket and thumbing it to life, so he could find his lantern. He lifted the glass chimney, set the flame to the wick, and adjusted it to a moderate level. He was about to sit down on his bed when something caught his attention: his revolver and the knife he had taken from the youth in Houston were missing.

  Chapter 35

  A THOROUGH SEARCH of the room revealed nothing more than that the revolver and knife were not to be found. Sir William’s files were still safely stowed in the hidden compartment of his luggage, and Fleming’s remaining cash-and-coins were untouched, making it apparent that the weapons had been specifically selected to be taken. Perplexed, Fleming sat on the side of his bed, thinking, and looked up as Cesar tapped on the door. “Come.”

  “I heard activity. Is something wrong?” Cesar still held a linen towel, testament to his activities in the kitchen.

  “I had my revolver on the night-stand, and a knife—you needn’t ask how I came by it. They seem to be missing. You didn’t remove them, did you?” He was careful not to make the question seem an accusation; he depended on Cesar’s good-will more than he knew.

  “I haven’t been into your room since you came back,” said Cesar. “You brought your laundry down to me. I had no reason to come in here.”

  Fleming nodded. “Who has been in the house?”

  “Since you returned? I was out for an hour, at the market and giving the chicken to Bathsheba to draw and dress; you were bathing, and then working. After I returned, only Mister Powell and Joshua have entered the house. I saw Jacinth on the road, but his house is nearby.”

  “Hum,” said Fleming, to indicate he was listening and reserving judgment. It seemed absurd to think he had wakened this morning in the International Waiting Room at Houston Airport. The whole day seemed surreal, like something out of a painting by Dali, and this, just the most recent droopy clock to come along.

  “What do you want me to do, sah?” Cesar asked.

  “I suppose I should lock all the doors and windows tonight, just in case,” said Fleming, only half amused; he tried to make himself take this seriously, to understand the gravity of their situation. “I don’t want to find myself in trouble late at night.”

  “Of course not, sah.” Cesar waited a long moment. “Shall I fetch Jacinth and Alphonse?”

  “No reason to,” said Fleming, though there was a dubious note in his voice. He had a sudden, exhausted urge to laugh, which he stifled.

  “Shall I stay the night? I can send word to Bathsheba. She would expect me to remain here if you are in danger.” Cesar was clearly worried, and it was apparent he didn’t want to go.

  “If you think it would be wise,” said Fleming, and almost chided himself for giving in to such a funk. “You don’t have to.”

  “I think it may be best,” said Cesar. “I’ll sleep in the parlor. The couch there will serve as a bed. I’ve slept there when you’ve been away.” His admission was so forthcoming that it didn’t surprise Fleming.

  “Very good,” said Fleming, nodding. “I’d appreciate the company, no matter what may or may not happen here.” It was quite a concession for him to make, but he knew he was too worn-out to protect the house entirely on his own.

  “I’ll go to Jacinth’s and ask him to take a note to Bathsheba. He’ll do this for me.” He cocked his head, as if considering what to say next.

  “You might advise him to stay with Bathsheba, to protect her if you’re going to stay here. If there is danger for you, there may well be danger for her.” He wondered as soon as he’d spoken if he’d overstepped and offended Cesar’s sense of propriety.

  “I may do that; in case anything untoward should occur,” said Cesar, whose ready acquiescence told Fleming how very concerned he was. “If you do not mind, I will let him have your shotgun for the night. Jacinth, by himself, is a stalwart fellow, but the shotgun lends him an edge.”

  “Good Lord, man,” said Fleming apprehensively. “What do you think is going on here?”

  “I cannot say, and for that reason alone I am troubled,” said Cesar. “Will you permit me to lend Jacinth the shotgun?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Fleming. “But it sounds as if you think we may need weapons ourselves.”

  “There is the rifle and your forty-five that Colonel Bascom gave you at the end of the War. We have ammunition for it, and the rifle. We can fend off anyone who attempts to break into the house. And I have knives and a cleaver in the kitchen,” said Cesar with utmost seriousness.

  “What are you expecting?” Fleming demanded, his attention wholly on Cesar now.

  “I’m not sure, sah,” said Cesar, “but I am certain that there is something dangerous to you around this house. You cannot deny it. Perhaps someone has put a curse on you.”

  “It bloody well seems like,” said Fleming, going on in a more matter-of-fact tone, “but that’s all superstitious nonsense. Curses, indeed! You shouldn’t embrace such folderol.”

  “It isn’t folderol. Not here, sah, if you will let me say so,” Cesar told Fleming.

  Fleming shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “This isn’t Haiti, but still, there are such things done in the night that bring misery or favor to those night people—” He looked around uneasily and stopped talking.

  Fleming nodded. “Your point is well-taken. We’ll go cautiously, and we’ll be armed tonight, but against what, I won’t specify.”

  “Just as well,” said Cesar, his nervousness increasing. “I’ll have my family gather under my roof. There is safety in numbers.”

  “I trust you don’t think anyone would hurt your family on my account,” Fleming said.

  “I think there is more at stake here than you know,” said Cesar without apology.

  “What might that be?” Fleming asked sharply.

  It was Cesar’s turn to shrug. “I cannot say for sure, sah, but there have been rumors—”

  “Rumors!” Fleming burst out. “All this for rumors?”

  “Your gun and knife are missing,” Cesar reminded him. “That is more than a rumor, you will agree. I did not take them, and you did not take them, so we have to suppose that—”

  Fleming ducked his head. “You’re right.” He gestured acceptance. “Very well. What shall we do, you and I, once your family is safe?”

  “I think it would be wise to close the house and go to bed. You have the forty-five, and I can take the rifle. As soon as I get back I’ll set up empty bottles and tin cans inside the doors and under the windows so that no one can break in silently.” Cesar produced a humorless smile. “It is one way to provide us a margin of safety.”

  “Why not borrow the dogs from Dominique again?” Fleming asked, puzzled by the totality of Cesar’s plans.

  “Dominique has … friends. The dogs might prefer them to us,” said Cesar. “And Dominique is often busy, and does not like being interrupted.”

  “Ah,” Fleming said, nodding once. “I take your point.”

  “Cesar Holiday is no fool, sah, to ask the enemy to enter the house, if you understand me.” He motioned toward the window. “You must suppose you are being watched, sah, and not by your friends.”

  Fleming sighed. “What else have I overlooked, Cesar?”

  “You have had other things on your mind, sah,” said Cesar. “And the people here are not always candid with—men like you.”

  “British men. White men,” said Fleming.

  “Yes,” Cesar agreed. “You mustn’t blame us. You are not always candid yourself, with us.”

  “I suppose not,” said Fleming. “Mutual blindness.”

  “That, and other things,” said Cesar, then changed his tone. “If we spend an hour preparing the house, we should be safe enough.”

  “Indeed,” said Fleming, glad for the shift in their discussion. “While you’re gone, I’ll gather bottles and cans, and I’ll begin to secure windows. You’ll come back as soon as you give your message to Jacinth.” It was encouraging to have something to do.

  “That I will, sah.” He turned on his heel. “If I am not back in forty minutes, lock the doors and keep everyone out.”

  “Good Lord, man, you make this sound dire,” said Fleming, raising his voice so that Cesar could hear him as he hastened downstairs. The only answer he received was the sound of the pantry door being flung open; Fleming knew Cesar was taking the shotgun. The cold of reality permeated the pleasant tropical night, and Fleming at last shook off his sense of abstraction. As soon as the kitchen door slammed closed, Fleming set to work readying the house for a siege he only half-expected. Taking a dozen empty wine-bottles from the kitchen, he set them up in front of the French doors in the lounge, and the front door, both of which he bolted. Returning to the kitchen, he took tins from the trash and attached twine to them, then hung these in front of several windows, testing them to make sure they would clang together at the least disturbance. He was fixing a metal pail to the back door when Cesar returned.

  “I’m troubled,” he announced as he came through the door.

  “Small wonder,” said Fleming, who had regained some of his equilibrium in the last quarter hour. “Is there some particular reason for it?”

  “Something Joshua said,” Cesar told Fleming as he closed and locked the kitchen door. “I am worried for that lad, no doubt about it.”

  “Gracious! Why?” Fleming exclaimed.

  “He’s reached the phase of questioning everything,” said Cesar. “I realize all young men—if they’re worth anything at all—have such episodes. But Joshua is becoming so angry …” He stopped. “No need for this to concern you, sah. There are more important matters to attend to.” He looked around the kitchen. “We should lower the lights.”

  “Yes, we should. I don’t want us any more visible than necessary. I’ve set up most of the house,” said Fleming, his purpose lending this simple announcement a weightiness that reassured Cesar.

  “I am glad to hear it, sah,” he said. “Bathsheba said you are to be careful. She can see things, you know, things that others cannot. She believes you have a mark put on you.” He stiffened, prepared for derision.

  “What kind of mark does she mean? To what end? Who would do such a thing, and why?” Fleming asked, not wanting to debate the actuality of such concepts just at present, aware that his skepticism would have a hollow ring. He continued to work as Cesar answered.

  “I don’t know, sah, and neither does my wife. They say Dominique has such skills, but I don’t think she would do such a thing to you—not unless she had a very, very good reason.” There was a hint of a question in his remark.

  “I can’t think what that would be,” said Fleming.

  “No, sah,” Cesar declared as he lowered the ceiling lantern to turn down the flames in the lamps hanging there.

  “The front of the house is secure. I’ve left a lantern burning in the dining room, but the flame is low. I don’t want to trip over anything,” Fleming informed Cesar just as the crack of a rifle sounded, with the splintering of glass and Cesar’s sharp cry of pain.

  Chapter 36

  FLEMING REACHED up to break Cesar’s fall, and both of them ended up in a heap on the floor as a second shot splintered the window completely. A clatter of falling pans added to the confusion as the two men sorted themselves out.

  “Cesar, how badly are you hurt?” Fleming demanded, just above a whisper.

  “I have a wound in my shoulder. It is clean, but it is bleeding and it stings like the devil, sah,” said Cesar, only slightly more loudly than Fleming.

  “Any broken bones?” Fleming asked as he got to his knees, making himself move slowly and carefully, staying below the level of the counters and the sink.

  “Not that I can tell, sah,” said Cesar, panting a bit from the pain.

  “You’d better stay still,” Fleming recommended as he pulled a drying towel off its rail and handed it to Cesar. “Use this to put pressure on the wound. It’s not much, but it’ll keep you for now.”

  “Very good, sah,” said Cesar with real gratitude.

  “Keep low,” Fleming muttered. “He’s firing from above. He must be in the trees.”

  “Yes, sah,” Cesar agreed, and rolled onto his side behind the butcher-block island in the middle of the kitchen. Above, the kitchen lantern with its five sputtering lamps canted at a dangerous angle, two of the lamps leaking a thin stream of kerosene.

  Fleming crawled toward the broken window, taking care to look for broken glass on the floor. He could feel tiny shards dig into his hands and his knees, and he did his best to ignore the discomfort, though he was aware this could end up hurting him badly by driving the glass more deeply into his skin. He thought of his .45 and wondered if he could reach it before the sniper moved around for another, more deadly shot. He kept moving, heading for the unbroken window about three feet beyond the shattered one. His hearing was heightened, so that he thought he could discern the mice skittering in the pantry and the sighing of the slow wind in the trees outside. If only the wind would pick up, he thought, and toss the sniper out of the branches and onto the porch, doing some damage along the way.

  “Sah,” Cesar whispered from his vantage point behind the island, “there was a flash outside the window. I think he’s moving.”

  “Which way?” Fleming asked, holding still and all but stretching out on the floor.

  “Toward the front,” Cesar answered.

  “Get the forty-five from the pantry,” Fleming ordered, and slithered toward the hall, trying to avoid as many of the tiny talons of glass as he could. Once in the hall, he crouched, then slowly rose to his feet, pressing against the wall so as to minimize any shadow he might cast that would give away his place in the house. Without a weapon, he felt worse than naked, but he kept on, determined to find his attacker before he could get into the house and start shooting in earnest.

  One of the lamps in the dining room shattered in concert with a small hole punched in the window, leaving a fine array of cracks to mark the event.

  Fleming leaned against the wall, waiting for a second shot to be fired. He smelled the sharp odor of kerosene with a hint of acridity that promised smoke: the tablecloth might be charring. This realization made him keenly aware that he needed to act quickly, for if fire took hold in the room, he would have much more to worry about than a sniper in the trees. He bent low and glanced around the door-frame into the room, and saw the fabric of the tablecloth sprouting little bright feathers of flame, all running along the spreading dribble of kerosene.

  There was a clunk against the side of the house, and Fleming slipped into the dining room, rushing to the windows to hunker down below the sill, listening. Satisfied, he slipped along to the next window and raised the edge of the drapery, giving himself a narrow slice of the outside to view. Only the lush fronds of the low-growing palms presented themselves, screening the road beyond.

  A sharp breaking of a branch among the shrubs at the side of the house sounded as loud as an explosion. A moment later the plants rustled, and then there was a sound of rapid footsteps on the road.

  Fleming knew better than to assume this made him safe. During the War he saw how many men got careless and ended up getting hurt or killed as a result of assuming safety when they should have remained on guard. If there was another man watching the house, any move he might make would put him in the second sniper’s sights. He crawled over to the table and pulled on the tablecloth, rolling it as it slid to the floor, using his arm to press the flames out. He did his best not to cough on the smoke.

  As the waiting dragged on, Fleming began to think he might be all right. He rose very slowly, his back against the wall, and cautiously lifted the edge of the drapery again, this time pulling it back far enough to give a wider look at the road. Nothing happened, and he began to hope that this would be the end of the attack. He used the ruins of the tablecloth to smother the kerosene-fed flames on the dining table, and then righted the lantern, making sure the lamps were firmly in place and the wicks rolled down. Then he made a swift survey of the room, and satisfied that it was secure, he went out into the hall and back to the kitchen to see how Cesar was faring.

  “Is he gone, sah?” Cesar asked in a thready voice.

  “Someone ran away,” Fleming answered as he knelt beside Cesar and looked at the bloody towel pressed against his shoulder. “You need looking at.”

  “It is a simple wound, sah. It will heal,” said Cesar. In the low light, his glossy black skin had a greenish tinge.

  “You’re going into shock, man,” said Fleming, his concern increasing as he saw the towel was saturated and that Cesar’s wound was still bleeding. “You must get to hospital.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Cesar, but his voice trailed off.

  “Oh, yes it is,” said Fleming, getting up and helping Cesar to his feet, feeling him wobble as he tried to stand.