Manchineel. John Ballem

that curled against the shore. The companion rowed, while Adrienne strapped on her scuba equipment and buckled weights around her waist. She was sitting backward on the thwart to keep the light on the beach in view. When she was satisfied that they were the right distance from the shore, she signalled the woman, the same one who had assisted her at last night’s rituals, to stop paddling. Inserting the mouthpiece, she slipped over the side.

      Thirty feet down, she switched on a powerful underwater floodlight. As she continued to descend, it illuminated the sandy bottom, revealing the waving arms of an anemone clinging to a coral encrusted rock. A school of crevalle jacks, their sides burnished silver by the floodlight, darted away, then, attracted by the light, swirled back again. A sand-coloured stingray flapped past, and a barracuda with a bar jack, its tiny companion, staying close to its pectoral fin, came nosing up to the light, and followed Adrienne down until she landed softly on the bottom, tiny puffs of sand swirling around her ankles.

      Adrienne wasn’t particularly concerned about the barracuda. They abounded in the local waters and encountering one was an everyday experience for her. If she had her spear gun with her, she would usually kill one. Their flesh was firm and remarkably tasty. Despite their fearsome reputation, they almost never attacked humans, but seemed to be intensely curious about these alien invaders of their underwater world, often swimming alongside them for considerable distances. Still, this one was the largest specimen she had ever seen. His cylindrical, streamlined body was at least four feet long. She kept a wary eye on the sinister, silvery-green shape with its ferocious pointed jaw, as it circled around her, following the beam of the floodlight as she searched the bottom.

      She reckoned Skye had been about a quarter of a mile out from the reef when he tossed the urn overboard. The ocean floor was smooth rippled sand with scattered outcroppings of coral and thick clumps of seaweed. Adrienne was confident she was in the right place, but there was no sign of the urn as she swept the area with the powerful floodlight, keeping her eye on the circling barracuda. The mask restricted her range of vision, so she had to constantly turn her head to keep him in view. It wasn’t helping her search any. Suddenly the barracuda ceased circling and darted off to one side. Pectoral fins fanning the water, the little bar jack still glued to his side, evil-looking head pointing down at a 45-degree angle, he hung poised over a large clump of brown seaweed. Adrienne’s heart jumped as she caught a tiny glint in the middle of the waving fronds. With strong kicks of her flippers, she glided over to it and pushed the fronds aside. Although she had never seen it before, she knew that she was looking at the cover of the urn that held Jocelyn’s ashes. Despite her elation, she was almost frightened to reach for it. Its glint had attracted the barracuda and he might snap at it with his terrible teeth if she picked it up. But the giant fish had disappeared into the darkness beyond the light. It was as though his mission had been completed. Holding the bronze lid reverently in her hands, gazing at the intricate, almost cabalistic, design etched on its top, Adrienne knew that a new loa had joined the pantheon of voodoo gods. Henceforth, Lord Barracuda would be her personal god. Never again would she offend its spirit by killing one of its brethren.

      Carefully placing the precious object in a net bag, Adrienne paused to think the situation through. The urn had to be somewhere in the near vicinity. It would sink more slowly than the solid cover and the slight current off Tamarind Beach ran in a southeast direction. She would shift her search a little further south and closer to the shore. Barely moving her flippers, she swam a few feet above the ocean floor. There was something caught up in a sea-fan. Adrienne plucked it out and her heart began to race wildly as she saw it was a tooth, a molar from the shape of it. Using her light, she located two more, plus a front tooth. Then she spotted a small piece of what she first thought was coral. It was slightly larger than a thumbnail, and when she picked it up she found it was solid, not porous as coral would be. There was a honeycomb of brown matter on one side of the fragment. She had sacrificed enough animals to know it was marrow. She searched the surrounding area without finding anything more. But that didn’t matter. She held pieces of Jocelyn MacLeod’s body in her hands. Already she could feel their power flowing through her.

      After that, finding the urn itself was almost anti-climactic. It had come to rest on the far side of a miniature reef, considerably further south than she had thought it would be. Adrienne switched off the light and headed for the surface with her trophies. She was in a state of ecstasy as she began to plan the ceremony that would welcome the new god. A god who would give her power even over non-believers like Skye.

       Chapter Six

      Myra flicked a dishtowel at the grackle perched on the top rung of the chair next to Skye. The bird glared impudently at her out of its bright yellow eye, then flew off as she flicked the towel a second time. As soon as she returned to the kitchen it was back, greedily eyeing the marmalade dish. When Skye and Jocelyn had first visited the Caribbean they were greatly entertained by the boldness of the grackles and bananaquits who joined them at mealtimes and by the little ground doves, padding around their feet, picking up the crumbs they fed them. They soon learned, however, that the birds were a nuisance as well as a health hazard, dipping their beaks into whatever food or drink was left unguarded, even for an instant. But nothing could stop Jocelyn from sprinkling a few grains of sugar on the breakfast table for the bananaquits. Skye did the same now and two of the small black and yellow birds with their distinctive white stripe above the eye, immediately darted in and snatched up the sugar. Overfine saw this as he came out onto the patio but smiled forbearingly.

      “There’s someone here to see you,” he told Skye.

      “Oh. Who is it?” Skye craned his neck to peer into the livingroom. There was no one there.

      “It’s Sybil. She waiting in the kitchen.”

      Sybil was Agatha’s predecessor as cook. Four years ago she and her young son had gone back to St. Vincent to live and look after her ailing mother. Skye had been fond of Sybil and young Andrew. Sybil had been an excellent cook and had a bright, sunny disposition. Much sunnier than the somewhat dour Agatha.

      But there was no sign of that sunny disposition when Overfine showed her into the livingroom. She was obviously sick with worry. She was also obviously pregnant.

      Skye shook hands warmly. Trying to put her at ease, he said jokingly, “I see you’re making small bones,” using the local idiom for being pregnant.

      She didn’t seem to hear him. Still holding his hand, she blurted, “Andrew is missing.”

      The welcoming smile faded from Skye’s face. “How long has he been missing?”

      “Three days.”

      “Have you talked to the police?”

      “They think he run away.”

      “ But he’s only, what ? Ten ?”

      “That’s what I tole them. But they say lots of boys run away at that age.” She shook her head. “But they don’t know my Andrew. He’s a good boy and he likes his home. You know him, Mister Skye. He wouldn’t run away.”

      “Of course not,” Skye agreed. Certainly the bright, happy little boy he knew, wouldn’t. But there could be quite a difference between a six- and a ten-year-old boy. “How can I help?” he asked quietly.

      Sybil’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I knew you would say that, Mister Skye.” Then her hand flew to her mouth and she looked at Skye with something close to horror. “I’m sorry, Mister Skye. I been so worried over my boy, I forgot the mistress had been gathered. She was a wonderful, kind lady.”