Black Widow (24 page)

Firth said, “Of course not. That’s not a female insight, it’s simply prudent. A safe-deposit box can be searched or sealed if authorities get interested. I’d want my best jewelry close at hand so I could use it when needed, and also to keep an eye on it. The same would be true with anything else of great value. A first-rate safe, possibly . . . or some secret cubbyhole that only I knew about.”

“Ford?”

“I agree. Someplace secure, but easily accessible.”

“
Exactly
. There you have it. I think the videos are up there. Toussaint uses a form of psychological warfare to scare off intruders — obeah spells and legends, that sort of thing. Locals are terrified of the place. They believe she uses those flesh-eating monsters I mentioned to patrol the area.”

“That wouldn’t stop you.”

“Oh, but flesh monsters
did
stop me — because it’s true, in a way. I tried to reconnoiter the place a few nights ago, and her monsters damn near got me. I was just telling Senny about it, wasn’t I, dear?”

Firth had recovered her aloofness along with her poise. The woman enjoyed my reaction when she replied. “Yes, a terrifying story. Dodged yet another bullet, Hooker did. That’s why I’m so relieved you’ll be with him tonight, Dr. Ford — when he goes back.”

Irritated, Montbard snapped, “Senny!” as I asked, “When he goes back where?”

“Maybe I was presuming too much, old sweat,” Sir James said. “But I thought I was on safe ground since we’re working together now.” He caught Firth’s eye. “That is
our
decision, isn’t it?”

The woman responded with a cool nod.

“Good. I took it for granted you’d be willing to pop over and have a look around the monastery. We can take your boat or mine — doesn’t matter. There’s a lot to do if you plan on checking into the retreat tomorrow: establish a communication channel, locate escape routes — the regular drill. Breaching security in a place like that is a bit of a load for one man. For the two of us, though, it should be easy sledding.”

I said, “I’m not even positive I have a reservation . . . and I was told it was couples only, unless I get special permission — which is unlikely.”

Montbard reached and tapped his teacup against Firth’s empty coffee cup. “Not a problem. The three of us are on the same team now. Right, Senny, dear?”

AT SUNSET, Sir James and I were sitting in my skiff off Piton Lolo, Saint Arc’s leeward peak, looking up at the monastery and attached lodge — a stony geometric surrounded by rain forest, a quarter mile above the sea. Isabelle Toussaint’s estate was a spattering of white, hidden by trees.

“Do you see how that cloud appears to cling to the top of the peak?” he asked.

Gray cumulus had drifted into the mountain, then flattened as if pinned to the apex. The leeward edge of the cloud angled skyward, sculpted by thermals.

He continued, “Most peaks in the area are arid desert, but this one catches clouds for some reason. That’s why the rain forest is so dense. There are species of plants and orchids up there still not cataloged by science, or so I’ve heard. Fascinating spot. Always wanted to have a look around.”

I got the impression that, sooner or later, Montbard would’ve found some excuse to explore the place, to hell with the hazards.

By dark, I was sure of it. We were working our way up the incline, halfway through the forest, when we came to a chain-link fence. Spaced along the fence every few hundred yards were signs in Creole and English.

DANGER!

KEEP OUT!

There were also obeah fetishes, feathers and bone — another form of warning.

It was 7:40 p.m.

Montbard touched his walking stick to the fence, then used the back of his hand — it wasn’t electrified. “I didn’t have a problem getting over the other night,” he said, voice low, “but that was the opposite side of the peak where there’s a footpath. Never hurts to double-check.”

I was leaning against a tree, pissing, as he added, “I wasn’t joking about nearly being eaten, by the way.”

I said, “You mentioned the dogs.”

“Hounds, I’d call them. Real monsters. They were nipping at my bloody heels as I vaulted the fence — a damned narrow squeak. I ripped a good pair of trousers. Found out later the woman’s staff keeps Brazilian mastiffs. Do you know the breed?”

I said, “No, but if they’re anything like the dog that chased me last night, I think we can deal with it.”

“I wish I could pretend they’re the same, but these are very different animals, indeed.”

Brazilian mastiffs, he said, were a mix of bull mastiffs, bloodhounds, and South American jaguar hounds. They had the size and strength to lock on to a steer’s nose and drag it to the ground.

“I did a bit of research afterward, and was almost sorry I did. Adult males stand seven feet tall on their hind legs — only weigh eight stone, but pure muscle, with the temperament of snakes. At pedigree shows, the beasts are disqualified if they don’t try to attack the blasted judge.”

I was calculating in my head. “A little over a hundred pounds?”

“That’s right. There aren’t many of them in the world — good thing, too.”

I zipped and turned. “Then why are we doing this? I don’t want to have to kill a dog for doing its job. I also don’t want to be mauled.”

Sir James said, “We should be all right. Last time I tried this, it was three in the morning. Since then, I’ve pieced together the retreat’s schedule. It’s strictly forbidden for guests to exit the monastery walls after eleven. And someone who should know told me the forest is dangerous only after midnight. In other words—” He held his Rolex to his eye. “ — we have a window of three to four hours before they lock the doors and loose the dogs.”

The man was facing the fence, standing on tiptoes and using the walking stick to lower his backpack as I asked, “The person you spoke with — I assume he works at the retreat.”

“No. Too risky, don’t you think, tipping your hand by chatting up the hired help?”

“Was it Lucien?” Montbard had introduced me to the old man that afternoon. We’d listened to him talk about obeah.

“No. Lucien hasn’t been to the monastery in years. You heard him — he’s terrified of the place. The man who gave me the information—” Montbard paused, hands on the top of the fence. “ — is a beggar. Talked to him last week. One of those poor chaps I see too often on Saint Arc. No legs, missing an eye, so he scoots around on a mechanic’s dolly. From the looks of him, he doesn’t have many days left. Too bad. Very nice chap, but broken, of course.”

Montbard climbed the fence, dropped to the other side, then continued, whispering.

“The fellow made extra money poaching orchids near the monastery, but stayed too late one night. Dogs caught him. Of course, he claimed that obeah devils attacked him — there’s cachet in that. But we’re having none of that nonsense. It’s all about timing, you see?”

I asked, “Did the man hunt orchids on weekends?” Today was Monday, four days until Shay’s deadline.

“What in blazes does it matter?”

“Weekend schedules and weekday schedules vary. Maybe they let the dogs out earlier on weekdays.”

“Didn’t think to ask — and it’s too late now. I heard the poor sot was taken off to the hospital. But we can’t expect to have every
t
crossed and every
i
dotted in our trade, now can we?” Montbard shouldered his backpack, then retrieved his walking stick. “
Right
. Over you go, Ford. You’re the new La’Ja’bless, according to Lucien. The hounds won’t bother a fellow demon.”

Lah-zjay-
blass
, the old man had pronounced it. He’d said the word with a reverence that was becoming familiar, and softly as if he were afraid the trees would overhear.

"THE CREATURE, he attack three mens jes last night over to Saint Arc,” Lucien had told us, delighted to have news to share with visitors. “The creature, he hurt one fella purty bad. It because that fella were disrespectful, and speak a profanity regarding the spirits. But all them men’s lucky, in my opinion, ’cause the La’Ja’bless got the power to do much worse than break a fella’s ribs.”

I didn’t make the connection until I noticed Sir James looking at me, waiting to confirm the significance with a slight smile.

“Three local men, Lucien?”

“That right. Boy who bring me my coffee, he tol’ me this mornin’. He down to the wharf and hear the fishermens talkin’. The La’Ja’bless, he quick to punish. But that fella very fortunate he only in hospital, not the grave.”

The La’Ja’bless was a night creature that could assume different forms. Sometimes he was a wolf or a cat — “If those things cross the road in front of you at night, it the creature, an’ you smart to run, man!”

More often, though, the La’Ja’bless was half man, half horse . . . or a faceless man dressed in black.

“Las’ night, the creature be a man — all black but for the eye in the center part his head. It a green eye that burn like fire, the fishermens sayin’. That fella in hospital? He never be disrespectful again, that much I know!”

We had stood in the shade of a tamarind tree, listening to Lucien tell his stories while chickens scratched in a neighbor’s garden. There was a scarecrow made of sticks and a calabash gourd, a faded red scarf over its face, like a bandit.

Lucien, I discovered, was father of the subdued man who’d served our breakfast, Rafick. It was Rafick who drove us to the old man’s cottage on the outskirts of Soufrier and encouraged him to talk freely in front of Senegal, a woman, and me, a stranger.

Before Sir James asked the first question, though, Rafick was gone — a true believer who’d done his duty, but who wanted no part in discussing obeah.

Senegal appeared surprised that I jotted key words in my notebook as the old man talked.

Gajé:
Practitioner of witchcraft
Zanbi (Zombie?):
Creature who rises from grave to do evil
Dragon Tooth:
Volcano
Anansi Noir:
Black spider whose supernatural power is equal to a snake’s
Bolonm:
Tiny person, born from a chicken’s egg, who eats flesh
Maji Noir:
Male spirit who roams the night, preying on women walking alone
Maji Blanc:
Female spirit who appears as a beautiful woman dressed in white and has sex with men who are asleep or drunk. Uses her fingernails on their backs and genitals as her calling card

Flirting, Lucien had said to Senegal, “You would make a mos’ lovely Maji Blanc. Not a evil spirit, a’course, but the pleasuring type. Why you not allow this gen’lman buy you a pretty white dress, ’stead of wearin’ them pants?”

Senegal let him see she was flattered, even though the subject made her uncomfortable. “I’d rather have a white dress from you, Lucien. I’ll come back and model it.”

“Oh my, I like that! The Maji Blanc visit me several times when I were a young man. What you think my wife do when she see them scratches? She take garlic and rub it. Garlic
burn
when you been scratched by the Maji Blanc, tha’s how you know it was a spirit woman.”

The old man tilted his head skyward and laughed, showing freckles on his cinnamon skin, and eyes that were milky blue. “I tell you true now — sometimes the garlic don’t burn so bad, but I yell like fire, anyway!”

He stopped laughing when Montbard asked about the monastery on Piton Lolo.

“That a dragon tooth long ’go. It stick out the ocean so high it snag clouds. That why it a dark place where the wind got a chill, and it have washerwoman rain all the time. It a fine spot for orchids, but it bad for peoples.

“In back times, it were a godly place for monks. But them monks all die sudden of fever. By the time they found, the birds been feedin’ and carried they spirits away. Left nothing but they robes.

“The robes still up there to this day! I tell you ’cause I know it true. One night, I seen it with me own eyes, them empty robes comin’ down the mountain, candles for faces. Trottin’ alongside was a wild pack of
mal vú chien
. Them animals glowed, so I knew they was demons . . . on fire with
bawé yo
.”

I wrote in my notebook:

Mal vú chien:
Demon dogs; hounds from hell

“Any wonder the islanders stay away from the monastery?” Sir James had said as we drove away. “Madame Toussaint takes pains to ensure her privacy.”

He wasn’t talking only about the mythical dogs. According to Lucien, worse things awaited people who ventured onto the mountain at night.

“Some say the real Maji Blanc live up there now,” Lucien had told us, “but I seen that Madame Toussaint. She were wearin’ black, not white. I think she
invented
that tale, make peoples think she become beautiful at midnight. But I feel she a vitch, you ask my opinion.
Obayifo
, or a
sukkoy-uan
, that what we old people calls her.”

A vitch, the old man explained, had the power to quit their bodies and travel great distances in the night, and could be identified by a foul odor and a phosphorescent light visible in the hair, armpits, and anus. A thirsty vitch sucked the sap and juices from crops, but their real power came from human victims.

My notebook:

Sukkoy-uan
or
obayifo:
Vampire witch who drinks blood to stay young

SIR JAMES WHISPERED, “Males on one side, females on the other. Senegal will be very pleased by that. I think you make her nervous, Ford.”

I said, “She doesn’t strike me as the nervous type.”

“Not just you, old boy, don’t take it personally. It applies to most men, which is why I’m surprised she was lured into this fix. Interesting, your theory about victims being drugged. Do those people look as if they’ve been drugged to you?”

We were positioned in a clearing looking down on the monastery, where there was a quadrangle with miniature spires at the four corners, tile-roofed buildings within, and a cemetery on the seaward side. Torches added medieval light.

Within the walls, eleven people sat on mats, facing a fire, meditating or doing yoga, men on one side, women on the other. A few wore monks’ robes with hoods and rope belts. Others wore jogging suits or leotards, or white surgical scrubs as baggy as robes. Japanese flute and the sound of chanting drifted upward on incense.