Black Widow (7 page)

“Want a hit?” he asked several times, cupping the joint. “This shit’s so strong, you won’t have another headache until your next incarnation — then only if some quack grabs you by the head with forceps.”

The drugs were beginning to do their work.

Gradually, his focus rotated inward, attuned to some gathering cerebral momentum that he hid outwardly with sly jokes and articulate sentences. But now he wanted to enjoy the drug-crest in private. Either that or he needed a booster. Because my disapproval would cause unease, he wanted to be alone. Or he would wander beachside — somewhere near the Mucky Duck or Jensen’s — and seek the sanction of bleary-eyed kindred.

Another sign he wanted me gone was that he refused to let me look at the bite he kept scratching. Or discuss it — even when I told him he could lose his leg if he’d been bitten by something with venom that caused necrosis. A brown recluse spider, for instance.

His decision. I didn’t argue. I was exhausted, hungry, and I still had work to do before my new supervisors arrived to evaluate my work. So I was going. But not yet.

I had stowed the night-vision monocular, but took it out as Tomlinson said, “We could’ve bought the farm tonight,
compadre
.”

He’d repeated that over and over, too, choosing a different cliché each time — kick the bucket, hit the high trail, pushin’ up daisies, like shit-through-a-goose. Maybe the homey idioms mitigated the terror of what had almost happened.

Focusing the monocular, I replied, “We’re born lucky — maybe they wouldn’t have attacked. We’ll never know.”

I was looking through the green-eye at my stilt house a hundred yards away. Supported by pilings, braced like a railroad bridge, the place looked like a nineteenth-century woodcut.

“Everything hunky-dory? Or maybe there are a couple of fins circling?”

He chuckled as he said it, but wasn’t joking. A few minutes earlier, idling toward
No Más
, he’d startled me by breaking into my thoughts, saying, “Sharks are your totem. Predators attract.”

At the same instant, I was brooding over two previous encounters with aggressive sharks, both recent. As a biologist, I knew they were statistical anomalies. But why were the statistics suddenly askew? Fact was, I’d had more close calls in the last few years than an entire lifetime at sea.

Same was true of predators of a different sort.

I’d replied, “I thought opposites attracted. But there I go again being linear, bringing up the laws of physics.”

“Physics applies,” he countered. “
Quantum
physics. There’s a theory that whatever we envision becomes reality. I think those hammerheads zeroed in on a distress call. But it wasn’t the whales who were calling.”

“Ahhh. So they were coming to rescue me.”

“In a way. Maybe. You weren’t exactly turning cartwheels when you got the news from your neurologist.”

I replied, “No, but it could’ve been worse.” Which was true. I’d been diagnosed with cerebral vasculitis, an unusual disorder with numerous possible causes. A life spent banging around the tropics had probably contributed. The disease can be treated with corticosteroids, which may delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, most of us will listen to a physician speak the name of our killer.

I told Tomlinson, “Have I seemed upset? Truth is, I like the certainty of knowing.”

“Then your distress signals are job-related. You’ve been restless as a cat since cutting your old ties. Free to hole up and live a safe little life? Definitely not you, man. Sharks are totemic. They recognize your scent.”

Now he was joking about it, hoping I’d react. But the concept of animal totems was something I didn’t want to explore. Not now.

“No sharks circling,” I said as I slid the monocular into its case. Then I added in a voice loud enough to be heard across the water, “I thought I left the lights on, but I was wrong. You ever do something stupid like that?”

“Damn,” he said, recoiling. “What’s the deal? I’m not deaf.”

He put his hands over his ears as I said even louder, “I’m not going straight home. I have things to do at the marina.”

He looked at me like I was nuts. “Never raise your voice to a man who may or may not have recently eaten peyote.
Jesus Christ
! Especially out of the fucking blue. It’s like getting hit in the temple with ice balls.”

He was suspicious when I waved him closer, but I spoke softly. "We’re being watched.”

Someone was inside my stilt house, standing at the kitchen window. A man, not a woman.

I CAME THROUGH the living room, switching on lights that didn’t work, swearing aloud as if I didn’t know someone was in the house. Whoever it was had found the breaker panel in the utility closet, and offed the master switch. Had to be, or the generator would be running.

Maybe that’s where the man was hiding. Or men — in the utility closet.

I had a brilliant little Triad LED flashlight in my pocket, but didn’t use it because I was wearing the green-eye. As long as the power was off, I had the advantage. No way my visitors could know.

In my hand, I had a chunk of axe handle, wrapped with manila cord. My friend, Matthiessen, gave it to me years ago, nicely weighted for dispatching fish. I would’ve preferred to be carrying a handgun — the SIG Sauer, or the little Colt .380 — but they were in the hidden floor compartment beneath my bed.

I hadn’t used the fishbilly in a long time. I was eager to use it now.

My house had been ransacked. Books, drawers, clothes were scattered. Maybe he’d done the same in the lab — I hadn’t looked yet. Just the thought of it made my stomach turn, but I had to check the main house first. It was because of the smell.

Kerosene.

It had spilled somewhere. A lot of it. When you live in a house built of yellow pine — pine so dense with resin you can’t drive a nail — the smell of flammable liquids registers like an alarm. That’s why I’d rushed up the stairs instead of taking it slow, using my night vision to surprise the guy. I’d followed my nose, moving incrementally faster as the smell grew stronger.

The petroleum stink had brought me here, to the kitchen, where the pilot light of my propane stove glittered like a sparkler. Not much risk of an explosion, but dangerous. On the counter was a kerosene can on its side, top off, near a heap of towels. The pine floor was stained black.

I had to shove the reading chair out of the way to get into the kitchen where I stood for a moment, alert. There was a rustling sound, then a metallic clack. The lights came on, compressors started, ceiling fans began to rotate overhead. My telephone answering machine came on, too, its message light blinking rapid-fire. Lots and lots of messages — unusual.

I focused on the utility closet as a man stepped out, holding a gun. Not one of mine — a shiny little derringer, so small that maybe it was a lighter instead.

"YOU’RE HIM, RIGHT? Ford. The one the girls call ’Doc.’ ”

I’d taken off the monocular and was adjusting my glasses, looking at a man, late twenties, short, with bulked-up chest and forearms. He was wearing sweatpants and a crew-neck T, but expensive. A guy who spent time in malls, and in front of the mirror.

It was Corey’s husband. I’d seen photos.

He’d been a firefighter, I remembered, before he was canned for misconduct. Something about making a scene, losing his temper. One steroid drama too many. But I was blanking on his name. Last name was Varigono, but his first name was . . .Vince? Lance?

I said, “That’s right, Ford. The one who’s going to introduce you to the cops in a few minutes, then testify in court before they put you in jail for ten years.”

“No way. Even if you suspected, you wouldn’t call the cops. Shay told us about you.” He was trying to be cool, but his face was twitching as he crossed the room toward the stove. “You never call the cops, ever, because you can’t. It’s because of what you do. Some kind of illegal shit — Shay never figured it out.”

A strange time for personal revelation, but there it was: My travels created suspicion.
The mysterious biologist
, Shay often called me, as if kidding. But she’d meant it. I was expert at evasion, so she’d turned to outsiders to discuss it, a natural reaction. So why did I feel surprised — and betrayed?

Whatever she’d told the guy about me, though, had scared him. I could see it in his face, the way he moved. This was the cocktail party brawler? Yell “boo,” he’d make a puddle on the floor. But he was also crazy enough to break into my house, trash the place, then wait with a gun because he couldn’t find the video.

The video — there could be no other reason he was here.

And he was right. I had not called the police.

“What’s the problem . . .
Vance
?”

“Drop that fucking club for starters.”

“No, not until we talk.”

“How ’bout I shoot you in the knee? Maybe then you’ll take me serious.” He extended the derringer, aiming.

I held my hand out,
stop
, and turned sideways — not the brave image I wanted to maintain, but the response is involuntary when someone points a gun near your nuts.

I said, “You don’t want to shoot me, Vance.
I
don’t want you to shoot me. That’s serious jail time, and you’ve got a wife to think about. So let’s discuss—”

“Don’t mention that bitch! She’s done nothing but lie since she got back from that goddamn island. It’s her fault I have to do this.” He stepped closer. “And you’re helping them, motherfucker! Corey and those whores she calls her friends. You screwed with the wrong dude, man! Shay says you’ve been into some shit? Well, I’ve been into
real shit
, so you’d better listen!”

Now he was pointing the gun at my chest, leaning toward me, his expression crazed — but crazy as portrayed by TV mobsters: eyes wide, not glazed, screaming his lines not because he’d snapped, but because he was scared.

I knew it then — he wouldn’t shoot. Not if I gave him a way out. The phony berserker is a bullying technique. It’s used to dodge fights, and intimidate those naïve enough to fall for the act. Vance had the act down. He was a coward, and he wanted out. But who told him that I’d helped Shay? How much did he know?

“Give me the video, or I’ll splatter you all over the wall. I mean it! I want to see who my wife was fucking.”

I said, “Video? I don’t even own a TV, pal.”

“Don’t play dumb. I
know
it’s here. Shay-shay didn’t tell you?” He had a nervous, staccato laugh. “The girls got another e-mail tonight. Their island boyfriend kept a copy, and now he wants the rest of his money. If I’ve got to pay the puke, I should at least be able to see if Corey got her money’s worth.”

I stared at Varigono for long seconds, the smell of kerosene strong around me, aware of the stove’s pilot light, concerned about what this jerk had destroyed next door. Finally, I turned my back to him, saying, “The only thing I’ll give you is five minutes to get out. Your wife is Shay’s friend — that’s the only reason.”

As Varigono hollered for me to stop, I tossed the axe handle aside, walking toward the door, hoping I was right about him, but tense, now hearing real craziness in his voice at the mention of Corey, thinking maybe, just maybe, he
could
do it.

“Why are you covering for them, man? You’re a guy, you can’t understand? She’s my wife! It’s my right! Hey . . . hey! I’m talking to you, motherfucker!”

I was walking out the screen door, ignoring him until I heard the ignition
pop
of the propane stove. That made me stop. I turned.

Oh no ...

Along with the derringer, Varigono was now holding a torch made from papers he’d twisted into a cone. I watched it blaze when he held it to the burner, the expression on his face changing from crazed to triumphant.

“Yeah . . . that’s better. So
finally
, I got your attention. Shay told me that about you, too — how much you like this old shack and your little pet fishes. That you’re a fucking weirdo with your microscopes and books.”

Shay, I was learning, did not always speak in glowing terms about her godfather.

Vance said, “You know the difference between arson and an accident? Don’t worry, ’cause I do.” He used the gun to indicate the mess he’d created. “You and me got into a fight, and this place is a fire trap. That’s what the investigators will decide.”

I said, “Your word against mine? They canned you for a reason. You don’t think they’ll check the files?”

“I’ll risk it.” He extended the torch, threatening to light towels next to the stove. “I’d rather burn the place down than let you and your weirdo buddies sit around and watch Corey naked, fucking some stranger. I know it’s here someplace. So, last chance. Where!”

Enough
. I walked toward him, an unconscious reaction. “Vance, the only person your wife fucked was herself when she married you.” The adrenal chill was pumping. Why the hell had I dropped the axe handle?

He held torch flames to the towels. “I’ll
do
it.”

“Then do it.”

“I’ll shoot you, motherfucker!” He leveled the tiny pistol at my chest.

“Go ahead.”

He tried. Got the hammer back as I locked my hands on his wrist, lifting and twisting. The derringer made a concise firecracker
whap
near my ear, putting a round through the roof. I pivoted with good leverage, and stripped the gun from his fingers, then dislocated his elbow with a come-along that dropped him to his knees as he made a sharp, thin whistling scream.

He dropped the torch, too. I watched blue flames sprint across the wooden floor — pine resin instantly aromatic because of the heat. Panic. Kerosene isn’t explosive, but yellow pine is. My brain projected an image: flames colored by lab chemicals; firemen hosing charred ruins. Vance deserved to burn with the house — justice. My first instinct was to get to my floor safe and rescue my valuables.

It took three long steps to get to the bedroom. In that brief span, the panic passed. I reassessed. The fire was spreading, but it hadn’t yet bitten into wood. There was still time.

Seconds later, I was back with blankets from my closet and a fire extinguisher. The blankets worked. Snuffed out the flames before they got to the wood. Lucky — lucky because I’d stopped the fire, and also because I didn’t have to use the fire extinguishers. They leave a powdery mess, and I already had enough chaos to deal with.