Black Widow (28 page)

The woman poured a glass of wine, sniffed the air once again, testing for fire despite her cigarette. Once again, she touched fingers to the Midnight Star sapphire . . . then turned toward the window, startled, because of a sudden, piercing sound outside. The screaming had begun.

It was a man’s voice, shrill . . . vocal cords tearing as terror peaked. After several seconds, the bawling transitioned into a series of ragged shrieks. Terror had become pain.

"Godohgodohgod ... HELP MEEEEEEEE!”

The confusing sound of a waterfall became the snarling, clacking chorus of dogs dragging down prey. I kept telling myself it wasn’t Sir James’s voice. But it was coming from the forested area where he’d last used the infrared to signal. Who else could it be?

“Noooooo . .. NO!”

When horror is converted into childlike cries, panic becomes transmittable.

You have a gun, James . . .goddamn it, pull your gun!

I felt the panic . . . so did Isabelle Toussaint. I started down the tree, fixated on the source of the screams, but a peripheral part of my brain noted that the woman was also reacting. She was removing her necklace as she hurried toward the back staircase. I saw her lean . . . guessed she was reaching for something out of my view. Then . . . as if on rollers, the middle section of steps opened upward like a hatch.

Toussaint returned for the oil lamp, then crossed again to the hidden compartment. No . . . it wasn’t just a compartment, it was a second stairway that descended into a basement.

The château had been built over stone ruins. The ruins apparently extended underground, into the mountainside. I watched the woman disappear down the steps into an unseen chamber. As she pulled the hatch closed, the man’s screams were fading into a silence of screaming frogs and rain-forest insects.

I now knew where Toussaint kept her valuables. But it had cost James Montbard dearly. Maybe his life.

I DROPPED FROM THE TREE and ran toward the ficus maze, suddenly furious at myself for not using reflective tape to mark an exit route. A stupid oversight. I didn’t have time to waste on more dead ends — I had to find the Englishman.

To my right, a sliding gate opened. Two men with flashlights appeared. The lights scanned the garden terrace I’d just left . . . then swept toward me.

The men didn’t see me. But the dogs that followed them into the garden did. I would’ve known even if I wasn’t wearing night vision. The dogs had fluorescent collars, bright as glow sticks. The collars illuminated their jowls and bright, black eyes — two gigantic Brazilian mastiffs.

I ducked into the maze, my speed fueled by fear. Seconds later, the dogs skidded into the hedgerow behind me. I could hear their pounding weight and their salivary growling. Make a wrong turn, hit a dead end, the dogs would be on me. Did it matter? They were going to catch me, anyway.

Ahead were three corridors to choose from, none much wider than my shoulders. I took the opening to the left. There was a sharp right turn, then a sharp left. In the monocular’s green light, the hedge walls appeared black, a foot higher than my head. It seemed familiar. But the dogs were closing, tracking me by scent —
hopefully
. After all the wrong turns I’d made earlier, my scent was everywhere. Maybe they’d get confused.

Two more openings appeared. I chose the inner corridor, running as hard as I could until the maze began to narrow. The other dead ends had narrowed in the same way.

Shit.

As I slowed, I reached to pull the Colt from the holster tucked into the back of my pants . . . then made another mistake — I fumbled the gun and dropped it. Had to stop, retrace my steps, then kneel to retrieve it. Too late, and I knew it — the dogs were waiting.

As I knelt, a wolfish rumble vibrated near my ear. Both dogs were somewhere in the shadows, so close I could smell them. Because I’d stopped, they’d stopped — pack mentality — and now they were waiting for me to move. I’d found the gun. Had it in my right hand. I remained motionless for several seconds, then slowly raised my head.

I expected to be nose to nose with the mastiffs . . . but the hedgerow was empty. Where the hell were they?

I stood . . . then fell backward as a dog lunged at me from above. The animal looked demonic with its glowing collar, straining to get over the hedge. It was joined by the second dog. Their growling was a sustained howl punctuated by snapping teeth. Sir James had said that Brazilian mastiffs were seven feet tall on their hind legs. It was not an exaggeration.

I’d gotten lucky. The dogs had followed my scent into a parallel corridor, one of the dead ends I’d hit earlier. The corridor I’d chosen had narrowed, but I could see that it opened just ahead.

I held the gun ready as I backed away, expecting the dogs to claw their way over the hedge. But each time they tried, the top of the hedge separated beneath their weight, and funneled them into a tangle of ficus roots. From the distance, I could hear one of the men whistling for the dogs. Maybe he thought they’d treed an animal. He would be here soon.

I turned. I ran. I found the trail we’d marked with reflective tape — the shortest route down the mountain. I barely slowed when I got to the chain-link fence. Didn’t look back until I’d vaulted over.

IN AN AREA cloaked by elephant-ear leaves, I stopped. Stayed hidden there until I’d caught my breath in the leaning-rest position — hands on knees, head down. I came close to vomiting. My legs were shaking, and a schematic of the back on my brain pulsed inside my eyes. It wasn’t just because of my close call with the dogs. The man’s screams were still banging around in my head. Haunting — as was the guilt I felt for leaving James Montbard behind.

I felt sick. Stood there and argued with myself about returning to the spa compound. But what could I do for him now? Couldn’t avoid the obvious question: Was it true I couldn’t help? Or was I afraid to go back over the fence?

Afraid. Yes, I was afraid — an honest admission. But it was also true that if the screams I’d heard were Sir James, he was beyond my help. Even if he were alive, the compound would be on full alert. An anonymous call to the island police was my best option. Contrive some lie to get an ambulance and a couple of nosy cops to have a look around the spa.

It was quarter after eleven. I still had to cross four miles of open ocean in an eighteen-foot boat. But first I had to get to a pay phone. Or . . . I could try to raise the local water cops on the handheld VHF radio I’d left on the Maverick. That would be faster. No chance of caller ID giving away my location, either.

I started downhill, jogging when I could, walking when the trail narrowed. People who are obsessive by nature are commonly the victims of their own cyclic thought patterns. Their brains function like a compass needle, swinging inevitably back to whatever it is they are trying to put out of their mind. I am obsessive. To muffle the screams ringing in my head, I thought about Senegal Firth. What would I tell her?

The decision wasn’t as time-consuming as I wanted it to be. Long ago, in a faraway jungle, a buddy and I dulled our own fears by constructing a series of brave maxims. Maxims are distilled truths, orderly beacons. In our violent world, they reminded us that the existential has an orderly counterpart. One of the maxims we hammered out was this:
When telling the truth is the most difficult choice, it is almost always the right choice
.

I would tell Senegal the truth, but an amended truth to spare her pain. It would be after midnight by the time I got to Saint Lucia. I would hike up the steps to James Montbard’s home and bang on the door. Get it over with. She deserved to know.

The boat was hidden in a tidal creek in a tunnel of mangroves. The creek was a hundred yards off a gravel road that circled the mountain, jungle on one side, sea on the other. I’d marked the place by tying reflective tape in the trees.

When I got to the road, I stowed the night-vision monocular and jogged the last quarter mile in darkness. There was no sense of relief that I’d made it off the mountain, but felt no pleasure in the thought of getting in the boat and pointing seaward. Instead, I felt flat and empty, as if the dogs, the screams, the jungle had punctured my spirit and drained me of purpose.

It is remarkable how quickly we recover when good fortune displaces misfortune — and it always does, sooner or later.

On this night, it was sooner.

When I was close enough to spot the tape, I took out the infrared flashlight, fitted the night-vision harness over my right eye, and flipped the switch. Instantly, shadows were illuminated . . . but there was another source of light, too. An unexpected source.

In the mangrove thicket where the boat was hidden, an infrared light was painting slow circles on the tree canopy. It wasn’t my infrared light. It wasn’t me who was flashing Montbard’s signal to regroup.

I ran toward the boat. Unholstered my pistol just in case, but didn’t bother trying to cover the sound of me crashing through the mangroves. Sir James was lighting his pipe when I broke through the trees.

“About time, old boy,” he said calmly. “I was beginning to worry dogs had caught more than one trespasser tonight. Poor bastard — up there poaching orchids. You heard?”

“Yes.”

“You sound a bit shaken.”

“I am. I thought it was you.”

“Could’ve been. Terrible way to go. But you would have heard at least one shot — better by my own bullet than the indignity of being ripped apart by dogs. It was a local boy, barely out of his teens. Nothing I could do.”

“A boy?”

“Sadly, yes. Athletic-looking lad; poor family, judging from his rags.” For the first time, Montbard sounded like a weary seventy-year-old man.

He had used the VHF radio, he added, and told harbor patrol that a wealthy tourist had been attacked, and might still be alive. There was a better chance they’d respond if they believed it was a tourist.

I untied the boat, started the engine. We were idling into the slow lift and fall of a trade-wind sea before I said, “I don’t know about you, but I could use one of your midnight teas.”

Montbard tapped his pipe empty before putting it in the pocket of his dinner jacket. “Right you are. A stiff whiskey or two’s just the thing.”

TUESDAY, JUNE 25TH

The Hooded Orchid was on an early-to-bed, early-to-rise schedule. Senegal and I signed the guest book before noon the next day. She was assigned Room 7, one of two dozen doors spaced along the cloister on the inland side of the monastery. I was in Room 36, a stone cubicle on the seaward side: an iron convent bed, a chair, a tiny bathroom, a pad of Persian carpet, a cross, and an incense burner in the “meditation corner.”

Couples were forbidden to “interact,” we were reminded — as if putting us in different buildings wasn’t reminder enough. Orientation was at 4 p.m.; attendance mandatory. Until then, we were asked to stay in our rooms and rest.

I didn’t feel like resting. I unpacked and headed outside.

A few minutes later, I was standing at the edge of the cliff that had scared me dizzy the night before, imitating a tourist who’d never seen the place. The rope I’d secured to the tree was hidden in the rocks. I had to peek over the safety railing to confirm it was still there.

I also was surprised to confirm that a police boat and two fishing boats were anchored at the base of the cliff. They had a line and a grappling hook attached to something that looked like a chunk of brown sponge. A man’s body. No . . . the man-sized body of a teen.

Surf was breaking under the rocks, geysering upward through spume holes. From where I stood, the geysers appeared stationary, like ice sculptures. I knew better. The boats were standing off because of the rocks and whirlpool currents. Not an easy place to retrieve a body — what was left of the body, anyway, after a night crashing among rocks.

I had seen the boats from our helicopter on the flight in, but didn’t get a good look. I was seated next to Senegal, but said nothing because we were crammed among four other new spa arrivals. I wouldn’t have said anything anyway until I was sure. Now I was.

This was how Isabelle Toussaint’s staff dealt with trespassers — convenient, clean, and utterly ruthless. For those with blood on their hands, high cliffs and deep water are efficient disinfectants. It is something that accomplished criminals know.

Extortionists are motivated by greed, but these were killers. Blackmail was a sideline — one of several, I suspected. How many people had gone off that cliff? If Montbard hadn’t contacted the harbor patrol, I doubted if the boy’s body would’ve been found.

It was freeing, in ways, watching the grappling hook do its work. It changed the rules. It expanded the limits of my own conduct. I’m not a policeman; was never trained in the protocols of assembling evidence. But I know how to deal with killers. After years in the trade, I am competent.

Freeing, yes. But I was also aware that somewhere a mother was grieving. The teen’s family would turn from his coffin with scars they would carry to their own graves. Through association, I was now vested in their loss — I had heard the boy’s screams. Only sociopaths and the righteous feel unconstrained by convention. I was suddenly at liberty to take righteous action.

A few days before, I’d tried to make Shay smile, saying her blackmailers had no idea who they were dealing with.

Now it was true.

“Excuse me, sir. The Lookout’s off-limits to guests. You need to return to your room.”

I turned to see the man I’d mistaken for Ritchie. Similar size; muscles under the white shirt with its Hooded Orchid logo. Otherwise, there was no resemblance on this afternoon of sunlight and low silver clouds. He had shoulder-length black hair, a geometric chin, and spoke articulate English with a French accent. His name tag read: FABRON MMT.

Was Fabio a derivative of Fabron? He looked a little like the guy I’d seen on the cover of romance novels. Maybe he’d picked it out himself, like a vanity license plate.

Standing behind Fabron, like a shadow, was a tiny woman in a blue maid’s uniform, her expression blank. She remained disinterested as I smiled, put my arms out, palms up, to let the man know I felt confused and foolish. I also didn’t want him to get close enough to spot the rope. “Off-limits? Geez, sorry. Didn’t know. Maybe you should put up a sign or something—”