Chapter 10
It was Monday evening when Clint and Cheyenne neared the fence surrounding the villa after a long walk across the island. Each man was dressed in dark pants and wore a black jersey. Each had a knapsack on his back in which was packed not only Clint's equipment, but also the tools Cheyenne had assembled for their foray, as well as several days' provisions. It was like old times, Clint thought, like the Marines and a special expeditionary patrol. The thoroughness of their preparations had given him both a complete sense of trust in Cheyenne and a new sense of self-determination. He hadn't thought about Shirley all day now. And with a very military sense of self-discipline, he expunged all thoughts of Katrina and where she might be now from his mind. All his senses and all his former training were at the ready.
The high-voltage fence surrounding the estate was no problem. Working with rubber gloves, Cheyenne attached top wires to two of the fence cables, at a place where the high fence ran close to some thick vegetation. Then he cut the two strands, and he and Clint slipped through the opening. They paused to repair the broken links, using connectors that Cheyenne had fashioned the night before, in anticipation of this one of many problems ahead of them.
Clint followed the big islander on an intricate course through the carefully planted and manicured grounds. When they were within a few hundred yards of the villa, which loomed against the light Caribbean night sky, they stopped. Both men drew from their knapsacks a slingshot-like affair and armed them with the drugged projectiles Cheyenne had produced. Then they crept forward, keeping a distance of about forty yards between them, as they moved up in parallel fashion to the villa.
Clint stopped dead at the same instant Cheyenne had, only a little distance from the villa. For he had heard the dog's panting and in another few seconds saw the great Doberman watchdog trotting in their direction. The dog stopped, confused as they had known he would be, by the two different human scents. He edged closer, beginning to growl in a deep, low tone. Clint looked at Cheyenne and waited until he saw the other's signal. Then both drew back the slings and let fire. The dog jumped back as the two darts hit him simultaneously. And the short yelp of surprise he had given died in his throat as the drugs worked their immediate effect and caused him to collapse, struggling quietly, onto the grass. When he was quite still, Cheyenne moved forward and, upon reaching the sleeping animal, removed the two darts from his hide.
Then they edged right up to the side of the villa. Clint had no idea how they were going to get into it and realized that this was something Cheyenne had never mentioned. But it became instantly clear to him that they were not going to go inside, at least not yet. For at the spot Cheyenne had chosen to guide them to there was another way. Here rose one of the ludicrous stone buttresses that was part of the villa's crazy blend of Gothic and Mediterranean design.
Cheyenne scrambled up it, as a child would a jungle gym, and Clint followed right behind him. After sidling up its arched top where it flared in to the wall, they were about a story and a half off the ground. From here both men made the jump to a low-railinged balcony in sequence. And from there it was a matter of boosting and helping each other up the next three similar balconies. The topmost one gave them easy access to the top of the outer wall, and when they had pulled themselves up over this, they were in the strange shadowland of the villa's elaborate roof.
Hugging the ground as they passed in front of several gables, Clint followed his skillful guide around the projections and fenestrations of the roof-line. Then, tracking on their stomachs with outstretched flat palms, they worked their way up one of the slating sides of the villa's highest projection. Scrambling over some decorative ironwork, they dropped down into a flat space about ten feet square. This was the top of the conservatory's low tower, from which the rest of the roof-village could be observed.
Clint didn't quite realize how much there was to observe until morning, when both men woke as the sun rose high in the sky and poured into their place of concealment. They breakfasted off the provisions and settled down to wait the day out. Clint went back to sleep as Cheyenne kept the first watch, a precaution they observed in spite of the near-perfection of their hiding place.
Later in the day, Clint took over the watch. Rising cautiously, he peered through the ironwork at the view of the world afforded by his lofty perch. In three directions, the lush greenery of the island's jungle blanket spread away from the Italianate gardens and expansive grounds they had trespassed into. In the fourth direction stretched the shimmering blue expanse of the Caribbean, its tidal lines ebbing toward the shoreline of the estate, where Clint could see an elaborate pier facility built to handle large yachts or seaplanes. He noted with interest the motor launch that appeared from time to time, circling the cove and patrolling out onto the sea. Cheyenne had been correct in everything so far, he thought. The villa was extensively guarded on the outside, the islander had told him, and on its lower floors. But up here, where they were, there were no men or dogs, and no here Clint hoped he was right alarm devices. One does not come to a place like this for years as a deliveryman without taking an interest in the workings of the establishment, had been Cheyenne's airy explanation when Clint had asked him how he knew so much of the villa.
But Clint was soon distracted from his aerial study of the estate by noises coming from a portion of the roof that appeared to be a sort of garden-terrace. By standing on his tiptoes, he could peer down through the ironwork at the terrace, an effort which proved to be well worthwhile.
For there had emerged from somewhere three naked women, who strolled onto the terrace. One, who was covered with what seemed to be a childish display of finger-painting applied to a body, flopped down on a chaise-lounge. Clint's brow furrowed when he looked at the other two, one of whom lay down gingerly on one of the many pads that were strewn around the terrace. For she was covered with long red marks, and they weren't the product of someone's amateur art work. They were deep welts, raised on the soft female flesh, Clint could only imagine, by the most diabolical sort of flagellation. The victimized woman's companion knelt down next to her and from what Clint could see, appeared to be applying some sort of lotion to the prostrate form's bruised skin.
Clint wondered how many more naked females simply strolled around the villa. And he was answered some time later when he caught sight of two small figures whose nakedness stood out on the green grass five stories below him like ivory chess-pieces on a dark blanket. Well, he reflected, Cheyenne hadn't been exaggerating in the slightest. The only thing that mystified him was who these women were and where they came from. What they were doing here was no great mystery, deduced Clint, thinking about their unusual appearance. He sat down in the shadows of the tower well in which they were encamped and began checking his cameras for the night's work that lay ahead of him. It was some time later that the sounds of laughter drifting up from the terrace distracted him and caused him to peer down at the naked figures again.
He noticed something then that he hadn't before several of the beautiful bodies that were cavorting beneath him had some sort of steel bands fastened to various limbs, like the circlets one always saw on the arms and legs of dancing bears in old woodcuts. The laughter increased, and Clint strained until he could see where it was coming from.
Three more women had arrived on the scene a redhead, a brunette and a girl with a luxurious head of glistening black hair. The one with the black hair was being held down on the terrace by the other two, and was largely concealed from his gaze. In fact, all that Clint could see of her was the hair, tumbling out on the stone terrace, and two golden legs, which were kicking about wildly. For over this woman's body the other two were leaning in order to deliver what seemed to be some sort of playful activity that produced the squeals of laughter.
It bothered him, the sound of that laughter, and he didn't know why for a minute. But then, as he kept watching the trio of unabashed, playful nudes, his mind slowly put two and two together, with all the uncomprehending deliberation of a child setting one alphabet block on top of another. The sound of the laughter slowly identified itself. And the sight of the hair, the rich, glossy mane that spilled out from the victimized woman who thrashed about under the other two sensuous bodies, identified itself.
Clint's fingers curled tightly on the ironwork, and he set his jaw to insure that he wouldn't betray his own and Cheyenne's presence by shouting out. For now he had recognized the hair, the laugh, and even the glimpses of the body that struggled under the other two. They belonged to Katrina! How, or why, he could not begin to explain to himself. The fact was simply that it was she, the girl he had been so crazy over, down there on the terrace below.
The laughter had begun to subside and Clint, who was virtually in a state of shock, realized that the three women were not just playing at some light-hearted game. The redhead and the brunette had something else very definitely in mind. There was no mistaking the motions of their heads and hands. Clint realized with revulsion that they were making love to his beloved that here on this same roof was the woman he had thought highly enough of to humble himself to her, being seduced by two lascivious companions. When he saw Katrina cease her wild struggling and saw her arms go around the body of the redhead, who was hunched over the upper half of her, concealing from Clint's view those abundant fruits of Katrina's body which he had known so well, he could take no more. Slumping down into the shadows of the roost, he sat brooding in confused fury, gnawing on the knuckles on one tightly-balled fist. Now there was a second priority established in his mind that before they left the villa, he would know why Katrina was here, why he had seen her doing what she was with the other two naked wantons, and what her presence in this den of iniquity represented.
By nightfall, after they had dipped into more of their provisions, Clint had finally pushed the matter with all of its raging and consuming force out of his mind. Fighting himself every inch of the way, he prepared himself for the first priority.
When all seemed to be quiet, he and doyenne swung into action. They climbed out of the roost and slid down to the upper portion of the roof. Clinging to the small sill of a window in the blunt tower, Cheyenne brought his glass-cutter into play. In moments, he had etched his way through one of the leaded panes of glass and unloosed the window. As Clint supported him, he lowered himself inside and dropped to the floor, helping the other down.
Stealing along in the darkness, Cheyenne led him to a door and stopped, hardly breathing. Clint listened with him, straining his ears. From the other side of the door, he heard what Cheyenne was listening to the clacking sounds of what sounded like a dog pacing on a tiled floor, its nails betraying its restless presence.
Carefully, Cheyenne reached up and, working with infinitesimal patience, twisted the vintage handle of the door to a position where it was ready to be opened. He motioned to Clint, and the other, understanding intuitively, grasped the handle as Cheyenne let it go. Then Cheyenne pulled off his jersey and knotted it in his hands. With deliberate care, he noiselessly positioned himself by the side of the entrance. Then, after nodding to Clint, the islander deliberately scraped his foot on the floor slowly.
They both held their breath, hearing the clicking noises pause and then speed up, growing louder as the animal on the other side of the wooden portal trotted over to investigate the almost inaudible noise. When Cheyenne was certain that everything was right, he gave Clint a light kick in the leg.
With all the lightning force he could muster, Clint jerked the door wide open. As expected, the animal, who had been only inches from it, charged through it, just beginning a bark of anger and warning. But before the dog could make himself heard, Cheyenne had crashed down on him in a lunging tackle. With the coordinated speed of the practiced stunt-man, he flung his arms forward and then back, cramming the jersey between the dog's jaws and pulling backward with all his strength. Clint was ready as the dog started his furious struggles and, falling on the animal, plunged another of the projectiles into his flesh. Both men held on for dear life, counting the seconds until the animal's energies subsided and the drug took effect. Satisfied that they had incapacitated the brute, they stole cautiously into the next room.
Clint flicked on his pencil flash and shone it around. What it showed him was an immense old conservatory, of the kind formerly used to grow orchids and like things in. Now, however, he saw that it had been converted. Where once there had been broad expanses of glass, there was sheet metal, sealing off the long chamber to the outside world. And where once there had been serried ranks of greenhouse tables, there were now a wealth of filing cabinets and office equipment. At the far end of the room was another, larger door, and over it had been installed the type of light one sees in radio broadcasting studios.
The two men lost no time in getting to work. Cheyenne dug into his knapsack and produced a small butane torch with a cutting tip affixed to it. Lighting it and adjusting the harsh, white flame, he started on one of the filing cabinets, heating the stamped steel around the area of the lock and bending the metal with heavy pliers until it gave way and the lock was twisted out of its place. The whole operation took less than a minute and Cheyenne moved from one cabinet to the next with quick efficiency.
Clint opened the drawers and rifled through their contents. Then, producing his camera with its small but expensive strobe flash, he began flipping through the folders with methodical speed, stopping every now and then to record the contents of a particular sheaf of papers on the long roll of microfilm. For five hours the two men worked with desperate haste Clint changing rolls of film as he documented records whose importance he could only briefly evaluate. Cheyenne followed along behind him, closing up the cabinets, reheating the steel and, using a body mechanic's press, working the metal back around the locks of the top drawers. The man was a genius, Clint thought, filled with boundless admiration for the way in which the islander almost perfectly restored the state and appearance of the cabinets.
From the cabinets, Clint moved on to the seemingly numberless file catalogues, folders and information drums that were arranged around the conservatory. The room was filled with innumerable blue flashes of lightning as the camera's strobe attachment clicked over every record, every piece of paper in the place.
There were some things he did not have time for such as the immense rack which stretched along the wall and held countless folders which, when Clint had checked at random through them, were filled solely with photographs of a baser and lewder sort than Clint had ever laid eyes on before.
One thing they had left time for the biggest problem was the small office safe that sat on casters near a large executive-type desk. They had prepared for it, however, and were getting ready to tackle it, having probed everything else in the room, when Cheyenne suddenly grabbed Clint's arm with a touch that told Clint something was wrong.
Cheyenne padded over to the door at the other end of the conservatory and listened intently. Someone was fooling with it from the other side. Clint drew his commando-knife and joined his friend at the door. Then the door seemed to tremble slightly, and the light over their heads suddenly went on. Clint was just going to reach up to turn it off when Cheyenne cautioned him not to. Instead, the islander began stealthily unlocking the great tumbler-type lock on the door. Clint stood ready with his knife, as Cheyenne repeated his performance of earlier on.
Having made sure the locks were loosed, he suddenly flung the door open. He and Clint coiled in anticipation of an intruder who would have to be summarily dealt with. But instead of an employee of the villa, they found themselves face to face with a lovely, young girl, who stood frozen with fright.
"Katrina," gasped Clint, staring at the naked girl, whose eyes were practically popping out of her head at the sight of him. "What in hell?"
Katrina stood there, unable to move. Was this really Clint she was seeing before her own eyes here in the secret bastion of the empire that Katrina had just found out how to get to from her talkative friend? Clint was smitten by an impulse to throw his arms around the girl, to seize her to him. But the circumstances of her appearance, both now and earlier in the day, had him flabbergasted.
Katrina was the first one to regain sensibility as the three of them stood rooted to the floor. "Oh, Clint!" she gasped, lurching forward and falling heavily into his arms, her naked body pressing against him and her fingers tightening vise-like on his arms.
Clint recoiled. He grabbed her and shoved her away at arm's length, about to speak. Then he saw Cheyenne give a warning sign of silence and watched the islander ease the door shut.
"Where have you been? What the devil are you doing here?" He shook her like a rag doll as she went limp, with glazed eyes, in his arms. "How long have you been in on this?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper.
But Katrina just shook her head dumbly. When Clint snapped her body so that her head jerked up and her face emerged from the tumbling masses of her thick, black hair, he saw that the tears were streaming down her face. But he didn't feel sorry for her. All he could remember was what he had seen that afternoon. And on top of that, the image of his dead sister, in all her gruesome condition, came back to him, identified with the building they had sneaked into.
"You know the lady?" Cheyenne asked. So far the islander had not reacted in the slightest to the mysterious interruption.
Clint turned to speak and found he was at a loss for words. He turned his eyes back to the weeping girl. "You were tricking me all the time, weren't you," he croaked. "Suckering me in? What did you have planned for me, eh?" He raided all the bones in her body as he shook her in his fury.
Katrina was nearly overcome with the hopelessness of trying to even begin to explain. Finally she managed to utter a question of her own. "Have you seen any of what's up here?" she asked feebly.
"Everything," Clint nodded. "And I'm going to break it wide open when I get back. Is that what you wanted to know? If you think you're going to get that information to anybody, you're wrong though. You came in at just the wrong time," Clint said, in his old commando-voice, producing the sharp knife he carried with him.
But Katrina was shaking her head wearily. "Clint," she started, her voice as soft, but it was not the voice of one who had betrayed him, thought Clint. The sound of it, calling his name as she had done only days ago, when they were the happiest lovers on earth, made Clint's heart thump wildly.
"What?" he responded, taking none of the edge off his voice. He still couldn't begin to trust her, especially now that Cheyenne was looking at his watch and clearly growing restless.
"Pictures," she mumbled. "The pictures. Where are they?"
Clint didn't understand at first. He thought she was referring to those he had been taking of the syndicate's files. It occurred to him that she was trying to coerce them from him. He shoved her away, immediately sorry he had done so, when she stumbled back and fell with force to the floor.
"The pictures," she said, "please, oh please. Did you find them?"
Clint was baffled by her behavior, but Cheyenne understood now. He pointed to the long, low rack of folders that were filled with photographic prints and negatives. Katrina instantly started up and went to the rack. As the two men watched, she flicked through the tags that marked the alphabetical order of the files. Then, after several minutes, after she had skipped down several feet of the rack, she stopped and drew one of the folders out.
Trembling, she walked over to Clint and handed it to him. He took the folder from her and opened it, and started with astonishment. It wasn't possible, he thought. But there she was. His beloved one, in hundreds of contact prints and negatives, Katrina in every sordid and grotesque posture of abandon Clint had ever heard of. He studied them in disbelief, his mind creaking to a halt as he tried to think of an explanation for the evidence of Katrina's shamelessness, photographed in concert with all those other, naked bodies in an orgiastic pageant.
He looked at her with an expression of complete bewilderment, trying to mouth the question "why?" With her eyes blazing, she turned the file he held in his hands, until at the very end appeared a printed sheet marked "Time-of-Your-Life Tours." Clint recognized it, for it resembled exactly the copy of the tour-contract he had signed before coming to this wretched island. His eyes followed her finger to the line on which was printed the figure $5000. And suddenly he comprehended everything, his mind reeling from the impact of the conclusion he had drawn. Then Katrina lifted up the paper. Underneath it was a strangely lettered piece of parchment. She grabbed it and folded it into a small packet, which she knotted in her fist. The folder she handed to Cheyenne, who applied his blowtorch to its contents.
"Okay," said Cheyenne. "Now we're getting somewhere. Let's finish up and get the hell out of here. It's getting light."