Black Widow (40 page)

Montbard’s brain was still working fine. “Ahhh,” he said gently. “I
did
know your husband, Norma. A good chap, he was. I’m truly sorry. It’s an honor to meet his widow.”

AT FIRST, I wasn’t worried about taking Ritchie and Clovis, or anyone else, by surprise. I had the brights on, the pedal to the floor, as I fishtailed down the lane to the beach house. The sweep of headlights showed the rain-forest bluff where the camera blind was located . . . showed coconut palms leaning incrementally toward a black, vacuous space that was the sea . . . showed the outbuilding where I’d jumped the guys two nights before.

But then I thought, why make it obvious? If the men were inside, they might panic. Could make a bad situation worse. So I switched off the lights, killed the engine, and used the clutch to coast the last seventy yards down the incline. I swung in behind a good-sized citrus tree loaded with Key limes, and handed Norma the keys.

“I’ll be back as quick as I can. Keep the doors locked. Watch for my flashlight. Sir James knows the signals, but use your own judgment. If you think you should run, run. Don’t worry about me. My boat’s not far from here.”

“Ford, you’re talking rubbish. I’m perfectly capable of going with you. I’m a right-handed shooter—”

“That’s why I’m asking you to stay here. Look after Norma. It’s about time someone took care of her.” When I opened the door, the dome light came on, and the woman caught my eyes, looking from me to Montbard, whose head was now in her lap. For the first time, he looked his seventy-some years. His face was as white and fragile as rice paper. On the floor was a pile of towels soaked black with blood.

I handed Norma the VHF. “If you roll down the window, maybe you can raise someone. We need a helicopter. Don’t worry about the price.” I pulled the SIG Sauer and ran toward the house.

THERE WAS A WHITE CAR in the drive. A midsize Volvo, which made me think of Beryl. An expensive rental car in this part of the world. Or the sort of vehicle a street guy with an ego would drive.

I touched the hood. Cool.

The beach house was lit up, windows bright, upstairs and down. The patio at the rear of the house shimmered with an aqueous, swimming-pool glow. There was music — Bob Marley, again — pounding through the palm canopy, stirring leaves like a sea breeze. It muted the percussion of waves on the beach, and the last distant crackle of Sir James’s fireworks diversion.

Crouched low, I jogged across an expanse of sand to the hedge. The hedge shielded the pool at eye level, but didn’t interfere with the view from the camera blind above the house. I turned and looked. No lights up there in the rain-forest darkness, no sign of movement. Wolfie had produced his last film.

I moved along the hedge, gun pointed at the ground, index finger resting parallel to the trigger guard. On the back wall of the house, I could see shadows. Shadows of people standing near the pool. Because pool lights reflected upward, their shadows were huge. At least one woman. At least one man.

I stopped and tried to decipher a garbled exchange — the man saying something . . . the woman answering, but the music disassembled their voices and left me listening to the wind.

I walked faster, then heard another exchange. This time I recognized the woman’s voice. “. . . if it’s me you want, get that damn knife away from her neck. Stop it!”

Beryl’s voice.

I ran. Sprinted toward the walkway where the hedge ended, and peeked around the corner, seeing the lime blue water of the pool . . . seeing Senegal Firth sitting in a chair next to the bar . . . seeing Clovis, his back to me, standing, holding a knife to the side of Senegal’s neck as the woman sat very straight, weeping.

Beryl faced them — stood with the wooden stiffness of an actress frozen by stage fright, arms at her sides. She wore pleated white beach pants and sandals. Nothing else. In a pile at her feet were a bra, a blouse, and a turquoise scarf. Her tanned skin was darkened by the paleness of her breasts.

I pointed the pistol at Clovis’s head, stepped toward the pool . . . then stepped back. The knife — he would use the knife when he saw me. He would use it to cut Senegal, or he would use Senegal as a shield to escape.

I glanced over my shoulder, wondering where Shay was, where Ritchie was, as I heard Clovis say, “Darlin’, what don’t you understand about this game? It’s strip poker, but without cards.” There was a nauseating slickness to his laughter. “I win every hand . . . or I cut this old woman’s face a little. Which would be too bad, because—” Clovis got a handful of Senegal’s hair. “ — she ain’t too bad-looking.”

He yanked the English woman’s head back, and Beryl yelled, “Leave her alone!”

Clovis grinned. Used the knife like a conductor’s baton:
tap-tap-tap
. Beryl took a big breath. She began unbuttoning her pants.

“That’s better, darlin’. You make me happy when you cooperate.”

I knelt, put left elbow on knee to steady my hands, and let the man’s head blur behind the precise notch-and-blade of my gun sights. I needed an opening, a few feet of separation.

Clovis put his lips close to Senegal’s ear as he released her hair. “What’s gone wrong with your pretty friend? First night we met, this girl, Beryl, she was eager to cooperate. Oh man, she was so eager! She ripped her clothes off. Hell, she ’bout ripped my clothes off, too. Couldn’t wait to get her rich-girl hands on my sweet bamboo!”

He looked at Beryl. “You don’t remember how sweet it was? How you moaned, first time I gave you what I got? Never felt nothin’ like it, that’s what you said. Ain’t that
true
, pretty darlin’?”

The way he emphasized the word “true,” I knew he expected Beryl’s signature reply. Hard to imagine the Ice Queen beauty with this Peter Lorre weasel. But there it was.

He said it again. “
True
?” When she didn’t answer, his tone turned nasty. “But now, instead of bein’ happy to see us local boys, treating me and Ritchie right, the bitch pulls out a silly little popgun. Like she don’t appreciate what I give to her. Bitch—” He pointed the knife at Beryl. “ — you try to trick me, you’re gonna end up turning tricks
for
me.”

For the first time, I noticed the little Colt .380 on the deck near Clovis’s feet. The gun I’d loaned Senegal.

I looked over my shoulder again, seeing palm trees, seeing pumpkin-sized coconuts on sand, seeing a watery darkness in the distance, but no Ritchie.

I used the SIG’s decocking lever, then hustled to the nearest palm, picked out a coconut, and put it under my arm like a football before jogging to the opposite side of the patio. The hedge was thicker there, but I found an opening and peeked through.

Clovis was facing me now. He’d grabbed Senegal’s hair again, but his eyes were locked on Beryl as she stepped out of her pants, showing long, tanned legs and a golden pubic shadow beneath white panties.

The man grinned his Peter Lorre grin. “That’s nice, darlin’. I think I’m gonna have me some of that. Why don’t you relax, have some fun with your bamboo man? Or maybe you’re the type likes to be forced.”

He stepped away from Senegal. I let him take another step before I lobbed the coconut toward the far end of the pool. Lobbed it like a hand grenade. It was big, oil laden, and sounded like a bowling ball when it hit the water.

Clovis whirled, then crouched. He looked at the pistol lying on the deck, probably thinking he might need it, as I crashed through the hedge and tackled him chest-high. I got a brief look at his eyes — brown, dazed, like protuberant marbles — as we tumbled into the water.

I kept my arms locked around the man as I took him under, pinning his arms to his sides. Maybe he’d held on to the knife, maybe he’d dropped it. It didn’t matter.

I exhaled a slow stream of bubbles as we sank to the bottom — couldn’t have been more than five feet deep. Kept my hands locked as Clovis struggled . . . waited as his efforts became panicked . . . waited, eyes open, watching the oversized bubbles of the man’s ascending scream.

I stayed on the bottom and waited, feeling his chest heave as he inhaled water, then heave again as reflexes demanded oxygen. Gave it another five seconds before I pushed Clovis to the surface . . . then shoved him away when he began to vomit, unconscious now.

It was one of those kidney-shaped, decorator pools. I got a hand under his chin, walked him to the steps, then pulled him onto the deck. “Where’s Shay?”

Beryl was the first to recover from the shock. “Shay . . . she left with Ritchie. Ritchie took her to the beach. She pretended she wanted sex, so he wouldn’t force her. They left us with this . . .
animal
. I couldn’t help her because of
him
.”

Beryl had her hands over her breasts, but it was an indifferent modesty. Her denim-blue eyes glazed as she focused on Clovis. I watched Beryl lower her hands. I saw her hands become fists as she started toward the man. He was lying belly-down in his own mess, still alive. I was on one knee, using my belt to bind his arms behind him.

I stood. “Beryl . . .
Beryl
. Take it easy. Don’t do something you’ll regret later.”

It stopped her. But I couldn’t tell if she meant it when she answered, “You’re right. Why lower myself? He’s the sicko. Not me.” Icy.

“Get some rope. Or some tape — the belt won’t hold. Can I trust you to keep an eye on him? I’ve got to find Shay.”

Beryl said, “Oh yes. You can trust me,” in a flat, robotic voice as Senegal wrapped an arm over her shoulder, pulled her close, and said, “Hooker taught me all sorts of knots. I’ll do it.”

Senegal, with her bruised cheek, hair a mess, eyes puffy from crying, sounded okay, solid. “Magnificent,” Montbard had said about her. I could see it.

I answered her by shaking my head as I picked up the Colt, checked the chamber, then the clip. "No. I need your help. And I need you to be strong.” I signaled her closer, as Beryl went to retrieve her clothes. “Hooker’s hurt. A dog bit him. It’s his hand and wrist, so I think he’ll be okay. But it’s not nice to look at. He’s in a van behind the house. I want you to collect all the first-aid stuff you can find. And hang on to this in case Ritchie comes back.” I touched the safety, then handed her the gun.

Senegal looked stricken.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough he needs to get to a hospital fast. But it has to be Saint Lucia, not here. That’s important. Understand?”

The woman surprised me, saying, “Then we’ll take him to the plane. Right away.”

I said, “What plane?”

“Shay came in a private plane with a man named Eddie. He’s at the airport now, waiting. We were supposed to be there by ten-thirty. The girls were going to overnight with me on Saint Lucia.”

I was thinking,
Eddie DeAntoni
. At the marina, he’d asked if I was coming to Saint Lucia alone, or with women.

“What time is it now?”

“Quarter-past-ten.”

“How many does the plane seat?”

“Six, I think he said. It’s very fast and fancy.”

Just like Eddie.

I told Senegal, “Then get going. Tell Beryl. Leave your clothes, leave this guy, just go. In the van, there’s a woman named Norma — you’ll like her. She’s flying with you. Shay will come with me by boat.”

I used the flashlight to signal the van, then ran toward the beach.

I WAS ALMOST to the lagoon, running hard, when I saw the silhouette of someone jogging toward me. There was no cover, so I dropped to one knee, gun in hand, and watched.

It was Shay. Because I thought Ritchie might be chasing her, I waited until she’d passed before calling her name. When she hesitated, I added, “It’s me. It’s okay. Where’s Ritchie?”

“
Doc
?” I’d startled her. She walked slowly toward me. “Did you see Beryl and the English woman? Are they okay? Clovis is with them . . . that’s why I was running, because I was worried—”

I said, “They’re fine. No danger, I promise.” I asked again, “What happened to Ritchie?”

I felt a chill when she replied, “Are you alone? We need to talk.”

“Yes. It’s just me.” I slipped the pistol into the back of my pants.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anyone in my life.” The girl ran the last few steps, and let me swing her off the ground as we hugged. She laughed, smiled . . . her smile faded.

“Beryl told you about Corey?”

“Yes. Was it a blood clot?”

“That’s what the doctors finally decided. But what really killed her was this island. What happened here. Feels real strange to be back. Feels like it was five years ago, not just a few weeks.”

I noticed that remnants of her Southern accent had returned.
D
s softened or changed to
T
s; the nasal emphasis on
strange
.

“Ritchie showed up tonight. They tell you?”

I said patiently, “Yes. That’s why I keep asking where he is.”

“I’m trying to tell you, okay? Beryl had this plan, a way to get revenge. At first, it seemed . . . I don’t know, exciting. When we talked about it, it was like we were actresses, seeing it on a movie screen. But that’s not how it was. It got real. Then it got too real. We decided, screw it, we’re leaving tonight. But then they showed up. Ritchie and the other guy. While we were packing.” Shay cleared her throat. “Doc? You mind if we walk along the beach? It’s nice by the water.”

I said, “Okay,” watching her pull a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, then light one. She hadn’t smoked since she was a teen, living in Dexter Money’s home.

Shay tossed the match away and said, “That’s how it started. Beryl wanted to even the score, after all the hurt they caused us. Plus, for her, I think it was a way to get back at the man who kidnapped her when she was a girl. I’m guessing. She never really said. Does that make sense?”

I nodded, thinking about Beryl back there with Clovis, his hands belted behind him. What would Senegal do if Beryl asked for the gun?

Shay said, “When Corey died, that made up my mind. Revenge, hell yes. I asked Eddie, the Italian guy at Dinkin’s Bay, if he’d fly me down. He’s always had a thing for me. When we told him we were pulling out tonight, staying on Saint Lucia, he went to get the plane ready. That’s where he is now, waiting for us.”