Black Widow (33 page)

“Man, you do whatever you want with her. We discussing a woman who did something very stupid. Created a serious situation here, and the Widow, she found out. The Widow has her ways, you know. So she’s taking care of business . . . in the way the Maji Blanc takes care of business.”

Wolfie meant something by that, I could tell by Fabron’s sudden interest — a touch of awe in his voice, asking, “She’s taking care of the woman personally — right now? As we stand here?”

“She’ll probably get started in ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

A smile came into Wolfie’s voice. “You ain’t never witnessed the Maji Blanc with your own eyes, have you? You want to watch our Lady come out in her robes — she sortta floats. I’ve
seen
it — torches burning, big ol’ fire. And her skin is so white, man, it glows. Like a fucking movie, I’m telling you.”

Fabron chuckled, maybe sounding skeptical, which Wolfie didn’t like. “You don’t believe in the spirits, man? You witness the Maji Blanc just once, and you’ll be wearin’ beads and mixin’ turpentine with bluestone along with the rest of us. Dirk, he didn’t believe — he spoke a profanity toward the Widow, and you see where he is tonight? In hospital. A creature come out of the night, only one eye in his head. The La’Ja’bless, size of a fucking gorilla, and he crushed Dirk’s ribs. You’re hearing this from me, a man who was
there
. The spirit world’s real. Don’t you be laughing when discussing these matters.”

Fabron said, “Hey, I’m not laughing at that. I’m very respectful to what you’re saying. That’s why — do you think I could see it with my own eyes?”

Wolfie put a heavy hand on Fabron’s shoulder, turning him, and began walking — the wise elder taking charge. “In that case, why’nt we go to the Lookout first, and burn something special? You want a very mellow mood in your head before you see the Maji Blanc. If you still up for it then, I’ll ask the Widow can you see this special thing.”

I waited until the two men were halfway across the quadrangle before I stepped into the light. I’d give them a minute before following . . . but then I noticed the room number on the door that Fabron had left ajar. Room 7.

You silly bitch.

Senegal.

WHEN I CRACKED THE DOOR, I heard Senegal yell, “Stay away! I’ll call the police, damn you. The British Consulate, too. Get out!” Something metallic banged the wall, and I realized she’d thrown a candle-holder.

I gave it a few seconds, knocked politely, then stuck my head in, whispering, “Senny? Senny, it’s me.” I hoped the familiar nickname would register before she threw something else.

It did.

“Doctor—”

“Quiet. No need to say my name.”

“You’re not . . . wait . . . I don’t—”

I pushed the door wider and held a finger to my lips.
Shhhhh
.

There was the sound of ocean waves in this dimly lit room where there was a lamp broken on the floor and bedsheets were in a heap near an overturned chair. It looked like the aftermath of a fight.

Senegal, in her dressing gown, was a wilted gray shape in the corner, a glass in her hand, ready to throw. She stepped away from the wall when she recognized me, and I touched my lips again.

She moved closer, whispering, “I’m very glad you’re here.”

I was looking at the ceiling. No smoke alarm, no fire sprinklers. On the chest of drawers, though, was a radio clock like mine. Senegal said nothing as I walked toward the clock as if approaching a snake, then slowly turned it toward the wall.

“Why are you—?”

I shook my head
— quiet —
as I walked around the bed and put my hands on her arms. I expected a response when I pulled her close and put my cheek next to hers. There was none. The woman leaned against my chest, stiff as a mannequin.

“Keep your voice down. There’s a miniature camera in the clock. Probably a microphone hidden somewhere, too.”

“I suspected.”

“It’s okay. I don’t think they can monitor all the rooms at the same time. Odds are in our favor — especially if they believe I work here. I think the staff visits the guests on a regular basis.”

She nodded, her body beginning to tremble as she said in a normal voice, “Of course I know who you are. You work here. It’s good to see you again.”

The woman caught on fast.

I put my mouth next to her ear. “Senny . . . it’s all right now. He’s gone.”

She nodded again. “Are you very sure?” Her nightgown was damp. Her skin felt too cool.

“Yes. You’re safe.”

Slowly, as if thawing, her body softened against my chest. She moved her hands to the back of my shoulders, relying on them to support her weight as she melted into me. I felt her shudder, then felt her breath on my neck as she whispered, “How bloody awful to have to pretend to be brave when you’re not.”

I said, “That’s the definition of bravery.”

“You’re wrong, I’m afraid. It really is a bastard of an act to pull off.”

“Whatever you did, it worked. He’s not coming back.”

“You’re certain.”

“One way or the other, yes, I’m certain.”

The woman pulled away, and stood on her own. “I feel absolutely drained. He almost saw me cry — silly of me to care about something so trivial, but I didn’t want to give him satisfaction. And I didn’t, by God!”

Senegal was a tough one, already rallying. I was relieved, but had to remind her, “Your voice. Whisper.”

“Yes, of course.” She looked at the clock radio, then at the mess on the floor. “I was being filmed the entire time . . . with him?”

“Filmed or monitored. Maybe both.”

“Then we finally have the bugger. He thought he could seduce me again. When I refused, he tried to force me. I gave him a hell of a whack on the face. If a jury sees the film, off he goes to prison. Fabron — such an absurd name.”

I said, “Seduce you again?”

“Yes.” The woman moved from the shadows to the bed, and sat in silence for several seconds, neatening her nightgown. I reached into the bathroom, hit the switch, then adjusted the door so a wafer of light reached her. Her sleeve was ripped. Buttons were missing from her gown.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. This time I fought back. He was the one who came to the villa the night I was filmed. I never thought I’d see him again. But when I showed up for my massage appointment, there he was. Came into the room after I was already undressed and under the sheet — smiling that sickening smile of his.

“He recognized me, of course. Expected to continue where we’d left off. So I’ve been doing it all day, pretending to be brave. He damn near succeeded during the massage. He . . . knew how to do things with his hands. I nearly gave in, but I didn’t. Then about ten minutes ago, he tapped on my door and wanted to give it another try. I’d hoped it was you.”

There was a carafe filled with herbal tea and ice on the nightstand. She poured as she whispered, drinking from the glass she’d intended to throw. I shook my head when she offered it to me, then watched her gulp the glass empty.

“I was parched . . . didn’t even realize it until this moment. But what I really need is a tumbler of gin. God, what I’d give for a bottle of iced Plymouth.” She laughed — yes, a strong woman — then looked toward the light that angled from the bathroom. “Would we be safer there?”

I said, “I’ll check.” A few seconds later, I said, “It’s clear.”

She was still thirsty. The glass hid her face as she came toward me. I was saying, “I think it’s best if we—” but stopped as she lowered the glass. When Senegal saw my expression, she looked at the floor, as if ashamed, and covered her left cheek with the palm of her hand. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

I had to move her hand to look. What I’d mistaken for shadow was a bruise that was beginning to swell, already showing purple hues.

“He hit you.”

She nodded, still looking at the floor. When I released her hand, she used it to hide the bruise again.

“More than once?”

“No. Well . . . only hard once. But I told you, I hit him first. Gave him a hell of a whack. I was surprised no one heard us! And during the massage, I let him go farther than I should — it’s only right to admit it. I don’t know what got into me. So, in a way, he’s not entirely to blame.”

It was a struggle to keep my voice low. “That’s nonsense. You know it.” Now I was beginning to shake.

“I’m only trying to be fair. And there’s something else — please understand. I can’t bear to have my photo in any more magazines. Or more stories telling lies about my personal life. A woman who whores about in the tropics, that’s how they’ll portray me. It’s precisely what will happen if we complain to management, or the police—”

I said, “You’re in charge. I won’t say a word,” as I sat next her. “Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do. So calm down, it’s going to be okay. We need to get some ice on that bruise.”

“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your understanding—” Senegal flinched when I rested my hand on her shoulder, then turned to look at me. “Your body’s shaking. Why?”

I stood and found the ice bucket. “I’m upset,” I said, because it was easier than explaining symptoms of rage. “It’s not safe here. As a favor, I’d like you to return to Saint Lucia in the morning. There’s a woman in Room three, a few doors down. Her name’s Beryl. She’s leaving on the first helicopter, too.”

“You met her here?”

“It’s a long story. Do you remember my room number? If there’s trouble, go there. The door’s unlocked.”

I handed her a washcloth packed with ice, and watched her touch it to her face. “I’ll have some things to do, so don’t worry if I’m not there.” I drew the little semiautomatic and tossed it on the bed. “Use this if you need to — and don’t forget about Beryl. She’s a friend.”

I made sure the woman’s door locked behind me, and I jogged toward the cliff they called the Lookout.

THE EMPLOYEE WHO had created a situation, who had done something stupid, was Norma. As far as I knew, all she’d done was entrust me with the truth. If that was her crime, the truth had a heavy price on this island.

Fabron had the woman over his shoulder, carrying her toward the rim of the cliff that jutted out over the sea. She was rolled into a section of carpet, like a mummy. I didn’t realize there was a person inside, at first. Didn’t know it was Norma until they passed me, almost to the cliff.

The only reason I happened to spot Fabron was because he and Wolfie weren’t where I’d expected to find them, so I’d gone searching. Toussaint’s château was the logical second stop. Fabron wanted to see the Maji Blanc in her robes, with torches burning. Wolfie was his eager mentor. So that’s the direction I headed.

I was almost to the cemetery when I noticed a figure in the distance. I had been walking fast, not jogging, sometimes turning full circles without stopping — alert. It was the only reason I saw Fabron before he saw me. Noticed a large shadow coming through the trees. The shadow became a man walking in the slow, staggering way men walk when they’re carrying something heavy.

I had knelt behind gravestones and waited. Saw that it was Fabron when he took out a flashlight and shined it around. I saw that he was carrying a roll of something — carpet, maybe — and knew there had to be a person inside because of the weight, and what else bends to conform to a man’s shoulder?

Had he killed Wolfie?

I thought about it as he came closer, headed for the cliff. No . . . Fabron was big, but Wolfie was bigger. There was no way the man could carry Wolfie’s corpse several hundred yards.

A corpse, that was my assumption. It was a thing — no movement, no cries of protest. But, as Fabron passed, the thing became a person again, dead or alive, because I recognized who it was. When he used the flashlight again, I saw a corded, butternut forearm, and the profile of a woman’s face and head flopping puppetlike on Fabron’s back.

Norma.

Maybe there was a hidden microphone in the massage room, but why kill her just for confiding in me, a guest? Or maybe it had to do with her job. She’d told me she was quitting soon. But then I reminded myself that Toussaint and her people didn’t need much of a reason. The night before, they’d killed Norma’s teenage nephew for pilfering orchids . . . or maybe he’d simply come to visit his aunt.

Evil is seldom original. Typically, evil’s color is gray. The common criminal is
common
. Most are the spawn of yawning stupidity and the intellectually stunted. But Madame Toussaint was not a common criminal. She inflicted pain for profit. She enjoyed humiliating her victims, and it was unsettling to imagine how Norma had died.

Fabron was a kindred sadist. I could hear him saying,
If the woman’s got a decent body, why waste a chance at something like that
? Toussaint would probably name him employee of the month.

Fabron was moving so slowly, I’d have no trouble intercepting him at the cliff. But where was Wolfie?

I WAS AT THE LOOKOUT waiting when Fabron came huffing and puffing into the clearing and dumped Norma’s body onto the ground. Despite the carpet shroud, her body made a flesh-and-bone
thump
when it hit.

Still no sign of Wolfie.

Fabron was big and lean, but he was cramping after carrying Norma’s body all that way. I watched him shrug and stretch, and roll his head — a massage therapist dealing with his own blockages — close enough that I could hear his breathing, and whispered profanities. I must have sounded like I was right beside him when I spoke. Raised my voice to ask, “Need a back rub, Fabio? Bad timing, killing Norma tonight.”

“
Huh
?” The man whirled around, then used the flashlight to scan the area. Nothing to see in this clearing but the stone cross, the bench, the safety railing . . . and a solitary tree angling from the precipice, over the sea. I hadn’t tried to disguise my voice, but the ocean updraft had a hollow resonance. Fabron couldn’t pinpoint the source.

“Enjoy the ceremony? Did the Maji Blanc’s skin really glow? Maybe she’ll pay you a visit. Leave you all scratched and bruised . . . like you left Senegal Firth.”

The Frenchman turned again. “Funny game, trying to scare me. I am laughing!” But he didn’t laugh. I watched him take three careful steps and use the flashlight to check behind the stone cross. Then he yelled, “
Who are you
?”