Black Widow (37 page)

How had I gotten here? I felt like a drunk sifting through images that had survived a blackout.

Ritchie and Clovis had dragged me into the cell. No surprise that they worked for the woman. They’d . . .hit me? Yes. Clovis had used the palm of his hand. Ritchie had used fists.

I touched my cheek, my jaw. Slight swelling; some tenderness. Not bad.

I moved into the light and inspected myself. They’d left me my running shoes and shorts, but my pockets were empty, and my watch was gone. The Rolex I’d owned for years, Ritchie had taken it.

What else?

There was something I had to remember. A conversation. A detail.

Finally, the memory returned, and it scared me that I could have possibly forgotten.

Toussaint had gone into a screaming fit. Said she was going to watch me die tonight.

I had to find a way to escape.

Using my hands, I began to explore the walls of the cell. Old stone. Dense, like granite. I went from wall to wall, searching for loose stone . . . then stopped.

I heard voices outside, coming closer. A woman’s voice, raspy from cigarettes and screaming.

I dropped to the floor and pretended to be unconscious. My cell door opened. Clovis and Ritchie again.

TOUSSAINT YELLED at the two men, telling them to stop punching me, stop waving that damn gun around, and put the knife away. I was conscious. That’s the way she wanted me to stay.

“Are you trying to kill him? Not until I tell you to!”

I waited until the two men moved away, then stood. I said, “Thank you, Isabelle,” hoping the familiarity would touch a chord. I was going to use her name whenever I got the chance.
I’m confused, Isabelle ... You may be right, Isabelle ... Isabelle, I’d like to understand
...

Killers dehumanize their victims to appease their own conscience. I wanted this killer to know that I was decidedly human.

Toussaint was under control now, dressed in her theatrical robes — purple and scarlet, decked with gold — the Midnight Star sapphire hanging from her neck. She was the all-powerful queen, two believers at her side, eager to do as they were told. But the orders Toussaint gave Clovis and Ritchie surprised them. Me, too.

“Go outside. Leave the door open for light, but none of your damn eavesdropping. You heard me!”

They’d brought a folding chair. The woman sat, her back to the door. She could see me. All I could see was her silhouette.

“Sit down,” she said. When I didn’t move, she yelled, “On the floor!”

I sat, then scooted a few feet to her right to change the angle of light, but also to create distance. It wasn’t the woman’s breath that stunk, it was a foul combination of musk and perfume. Overpowering. She lit another cheroot, the match flame illuminating wrinkles beneath her makeup, the heavy, hooded eyes, her nicotine-stained lips.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you? I knew your real name even before you arrived. And why you came here. Does that surprise you?”

I was looking at the woman’s distinctive forehead, her earlobes, hearing Shay’s voice tell me about her future mother-in-law’s six sisters — the one with a birth defect; the one the family didn’t discuss because she’d been institutionalized in France.

It pleased me that I remembered. The effects of the drug were fading, but I still had to concentrate to speak without slurring. I replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then you’re stupider than I’d hoped. You’ve also put me in a very awkward position.”

“I’m sorry, Isabelle.”

“You are not! What are your two little bitches going to say when they discover you’re missing? Now I have to invent an excuse to send them away. Or I could arrange for them to disappear, as well. But that’s not good business, is it? They’re like annuities — money and political favors I can cash when I want. Why hurt my own livestock? But I’ll hurt you if you don’t tell the truth.”

I said, “I have no reason to lie,” and nearly added,
Isabelle
, but didn’t. The woman was insane, not stupid.

“What did you mean when you said what you said?”

I replied, “Huh?” as if confused.

“You said I wasn’t abnormal! As if you know anything about it. You’re just another little man-coward trying to save his life. You think I’m disgusting. Well, it’s your kind who are disgusting! All of you — you’re nothing but breeding stock. With your adolescent flirtations and absurd charades. Perfume and lies — like flowers manipulating bees. Nothing but silly playacting. Behaving like animals!”

I was still feeling the effects of the Divinorium. There was nothing irrational about assigning the woman’s bitterness to a quirk of genetics. But I felt no sympathy. She
did
disgust me, but I had to win her over, or she’d kill me. Maybe Beryl and Senegal, too.

“I didn’t say you’re normal. I said you aren’t
ab
normal. I’m a biologist — you know that. Name a species — often there are three sexes, not two. Primates are omni-sexual as children. Boys experiment with boys, girls with girls. Some are born with omni-sexual bodies. The percentages are small, but statistically consistent.”

The woman’s anger wavered for a moment, displaced by curiosity. “You don’t think I know that? But why would you care?”

“Caring has nothing to do with it. I don’t get emotional about facts. Vertebrates produce a small number of intersex members.” I touched my neck, then said, “You scratched the hell out of me.”

Boom —
she lost it again. “That wasn’t me, you fool!”

I said, “
What
?”

“The Maji Blanc scratched you. She inhabits my body. She’s a demon. And believe me, demons are as real as heaven and hell.”

I said, “It’s your hell, but it’s my neck,” then stood and went to the window to get air, carefully not turning my back on her.

“Your neck? As if anybody cared about your neck! Don’t you understand the power of purity?”

“You’re saying you do?”

“Yes. It’s why I raise orchids. Did you know some orchids are self-pollinating? They aren’t parasites like you people. They don’t feed on filth. No need for your grotesque inserting this into
that
. I bet you actually believe I came to your bed out of desire? Hilarious! God sends the Maji Blanc to punish you. To punish you for what
you
are, not what
I
am. I’m His servant.”

“His servant, huh?”

“In ways you can’t understand. I film people’s sickness. It gives me power — like air to an orchid. Money is the penance sinners pay for their sins. Now you stand there and pretend to
understand
me. You just want to ingratiate yourself because you’re afraid to die.”

I turned from the window and said, “Dying’s inevitable. Getting pushed off a cliff isn’t,” and was surprised at the effect. She winced as if hurt.

“I’ve never pushed a man off the Lookout. No matter what people say, it’s not true.”

She was talking about her late husband, I realized.

I said, “I suppose the Maji Blanc pushed your husband,” and expected her to explode.

Instead, she became maudlin. “The Maji Blanc does that. I hate her for it. But my husband died before she selected me.”

It was said so softly that I had to strain to hear. Raging highs, abrupt lows — bipolar symptoms in a woman who was, in fact, three people.

“Delbert Toussaint. A week after our wedding night, fishermen found his body. The idiots in the village say I pushed him. It’s a lie. Delbert jumped. On our wedding night, he saw my body. I disgusted him, and he jumped. Because of the church, he knew we could never divorce. That’s why it hurts when I hear the rumors.”

I said, “I’m beginning to understand.”

Her anger began to cycle back. “Do you? Do you really think you’re capable? Then you understand why it was
good
my husband jumped. Think about it — do you see the wonder? I was never
deflowered
. Can you comprehend the significance? A few weeks after Delbert died, the Maji Blanc came into my body. It was God’s plan all along!”

I didn’t trust myself to comment, so I asked, “What makes you think your husband jumped? Did he leave a note?”

“No! But he left me rich. And he left me pure. Important people come to me now because my medicines keep them young. Potions only I know — brought from Africa by the first slaves. I have the courage to acknowledge the power of blood.”

I said, “Human blood.”

Her voice got louder. “Sometimes! Read the Bible: ‘Unless you drink the blood of man, you will have no life.’ The scripture doesn’t say wine, it says blood.
Wine
?” The coughing laughter again. “It’s a sick perversion of the truth. Does that offend you?”

“Yes. If it’s my blood.”

The woman stood, knocking over the folding chair. “I
knew
you were like the others. My clients joke that I’m a witch. They whisper I’m a vampire, but they love me because of it! For the wealthy, there’s nothing left to seek but sin. People crave sin. But you pretend you don’t. Liar!”

She was ranting now. “You should feel honored to be visited by the Maji Blanc. Tonight, she’ll come to you again. Your blood will be consecrated. She’ll say mass with the taste of your heart on her lips!”

She stomped out the door.

Physically, she may not have been abnormal. But, psychologically, she was one of the most dangerous people I’d ever met.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26TH

Hours passed. All day, I searched for a way out, my hands raw from clawing at rock. At sunset that afternoon, I was kneeling in the corner, using my fingers to lever a slab of rock from the wall, when I heard movement outside my cell window. Heard the crunch of careful shoes on gravel, and attentive pauses. I pictured a man approaching. Maybe two men. They would be armed — Toussaint had sent them. When an executioner sends guards, the guards are cautious because a condemned man has nothing to lose.

I chose the largest rock from several on the floor, and carried it to the door.

A sound at the window drew my attention. I turned. Why would they come to the window? Then I saw a hand poke through, holding a flashlight. The beam probed the far corner where I’d opened a hole in the wall.

I lifted the rock over my head and walked toward the hand, ready to crush it . . . but then heard a man’s voice whisper, “Ford. Are you there?”

I stopped, still holding the rock as the light swept over me.

The hand withdrew and Sir James Montbard’s face appeared in the window.

“
James
?” The effects of the drug were long gone, but I felt like I was dreaming.

I dropped the rock and shielded my eyes from the light as he said, “Under the circumstances, old man, you can call me Hooker.”A moment later, he added, “Congratulations, Dr. Ford. I think you’ve found the Misericord. Excellent work.”

“You scared the shit out of me!”

“Would you prefer I leave?”

“I can’t believe you found me.”

“Find the guards, you find the prisoner. Yours are making a circuit around the old girl’s house about every twenty minutes. Two of them with those damn, brutish dogs. Now one’s gone inside, so I decided it was time to act.”

Montbard’s attention returned to the architecture of my cell. “This
is
the Misericord. I’m sure of it . . . monastery ruins; once a separate structure . . . clever, how they’ve incorporated it into the château. Part of the foundation. Ford, I think you have the makings of an archaeologist.”

I said, “Get me out of here. The woman’s insane. She’s planning to—”

“Steady on, Ford. I’ll have that door open in two shakes.”

I heard the metallic tick-tick of burglar tools probing the lock, then the door swung open. Again, I shielded my eyes as Montbard stepped into the cell, then closed the door until only a splinter of dusty light filtered in. He was wearing a navy blue blazer, ascot, and dark slacks, as if he’d just stepped off the
Queen Mary
.

No, I wasn’t dreaming — nobody in my dreams would ever dress that way. I said, “Are the girls safe?”

“Yes, yes, Senegal called this morning from the airport. Humorous, really — Beryl and Senegal hated each other instantly, as women often do when getting acquainted. Now they’re already fast friends.

“They’re both worried about you. Senegal, especially.” His eyes had adjusted, and he turned to look at me. “Took most your clothes, did they?”

It seemed important to match the man’s cheery attitude. “My watch, too. You’re lucky you weren’t around. I don’t have your style.”

“Fortunately, I agree. Precisely the reason I stopped at Jade Mountain and collected some of your things. I hope you’re not offended, Ford, but there are places in the world where khaki shorts simply aren’t acceptable after sunset.”

He tossed me a backpack. “Looks like I should’ve brought a first-aid kit, too. Nasty-looking scratches on your neck. Worked you over pretty good, did they?” He drew the Walther from his shoulder holster and peeked out the door, gun by his ear. “Madame Toussaint must have something special planned for you. I’m surprised to find you alive.”

It was because the Maji Blanc wanted to keep me alive and fresh for tonight.

The Maji Blanc — that’s the way I thought of Toussaint now. An insane woman who masqueraded as a succubus to excuse her own sexuality. Gave me chills thinking about it, which is why I’d spent the day like a mole, feeling my way from rock to rock, hunting for a way out. Montbard had mentioned hidden passageways. It wouldn’t be the first time a tunnel had saved my life.

Inside the backpack, I found slacks and a shirt and the dinner jacket Bernie Yager had insisted I bring. I also found my SIG Sauer 9 mm, which I’d left in the suite on Saint Lucia. I checked the magazine and shucked a round into the chamber, saying, “I’m surprised you found this.”

Montbard didn’t turn from the door. “It wasn’t difficult. I looked where I would have put it — bottom of the dip pool, in a waterproof bag. We can’t have the cleaning staff gossiping about illegal weapons now, can we—” He held up a warning finger, then touched it to his lips. Someone coming. He pushed the door closed.