Dead Asleep (4 page)

Terra Cay sat in the middle of a row of islands in the Bahamas that reached down toward Puerto Rico. It was an exclusive enclave of the very rich. Access was only available to those who could afford to rent a house or charter a yacht big enough to handle the open water for days on end. The island had only one small hotel and a hundred villas, some of them for rent. Each renter was required to pay for a minimum staff of three people, including a cook. Everything on the island had to be imported, with the possible exception of the fish sold at the small marketplace. As a result, provisioning a rental villa was costly as well. Emma's stay was funded in part by a worldwide cosmetic company eager to find a new source of botany to add to their antiaging cream line. Currently, it touted the use of sea kelp as a miracle ingredient.

“But voodoo is practiced on the out islands,” Johnson said. “And in Nassau.”

“Nassau is not Terra Cay,” Moore declared in a lofty manner that Emma found annoying.

Terra Cay was known for its snooty manners. The island's founding by the English, the extreme wealth of its citizens, and its ironclad rules made for a lovely place to vacation. The surrounding islands were the product of their Caribbean and West Indian ancestry. Carrow had been following the exchange between Moore and Johnson and he glanced at Emma and lifted an eyebrow.

“Don't many of the staff members on the island practice voodoo?” he said to Johnson, who nodded.

“They do. For many it's their heritage. Especially the Haitians. They believe that a voodoo priest or priestess can cure any illness, even cancer.”

“Which is ridiculous,” Moore interjected. Emma noticed that Johnson pressed her lips together. There was an awkward silence.

“Would you search through the house with me?” she said. “Once we've done that I'll lock it up.” She looked at Carrow. “Then I'll be free to go to your house.”

Moore looked at his watch. “It's almost two-thirty in the morning.”

“Someone's always awake on the West Hill,” Carrow said. Moore frowned even harder. Emma thought Carrow had made mention of the West Hill specifically to annoy him. “I'll wait in my Jeep. Whenever you're ready,” he said to Emma. He sketched a wave at Moore and then gave the cook a deep bow. “Ms. Johnson, I recall your excellent cooking at the last party at the Blue Heron. It's a pleasure to see your lovely face again.” Emma was astonished to see the solid, dependable Johnson almost flutter like a schoolgirl.

“And you, Mr. Carrow,” she said. Carrow sauntered off.

“Let's look around,” Moore said. “I'd also like you to come to the office tomorrow so that we can file an official report.”

“I'll clean up the mess,” Johnson said.

“Wait.” Emma took out her cell phone and snapped a photo. “Okay. Thank you.” Johnson bustled off to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later all vestiges of the voodoo offering were gone; they had canvassed the house and found nothing. Emma walked with Moore to his Jeep. Twenty feet away she saw Carrow sitting in his, thumbing away on a smartphone. He didn't look up. Moore climbed back into his vehicle.

“Watch yourself with him,” he said. “Carrow and his group are wild characters. You don't strike me as that type.” Emma smiled.

“Thanks. I'll keep my wits about me.” She crossed her fingers and held them up for Moore to see. “Promise.” He looked somewhat mollified as he threw the Jeep into gear and drove off.

She strolled up to Carrow.

“Moore done with his excuses?” he said.

Emma nodded. “I saw that you didn't believe the mangrove story. What do you think is going on here?” He slipped a key into the ignition and gave her a serious look.

“I think someone is sending you a message.”

Chapter 6

C
arrow handed her the scotch, the top now screwed on, and threw the Jeep into first gear.

“Buckle up. We have to go straight down the hill and back up. I nearly lost my bass player on the lower curve just last week. Wouldn't have been a huge loss, you understand, but in this case I'd hate to deprive the world of that brain.”

Emma smiled at him. He smiled back, threw the car into first and hit the gas. The wheels spun a bit on the dry ground but grabbed quickly enough, and then his Jeep shot down the road at a breathtakingly fast speed. They reached Deadman's Curve. Carrow took it at forty miles per hour. Way too fast, she thought as the Jeep tilted sharply to one side. She clutched the handle above the door and willed herself not to say anything. Despite his speed, Carrow handled the car with confidence as he wound around the side of the mountain. At the halfway point he took a switchback, downshifted again into second, and the Jeep began to crawl upward, its engine whining with the effort to climb the hill, which blocked the low lying mangrove swamp from the rest of the island.

When they were at the top, Carrow's house came into view. It was a series of structures, all one or two stories interconnected with pathways and open air courtyards. Emma knew from the other island residents that Carrow employed a staff of fifteen and that the house was almost always filled with celebrities and the glitterati of the music world. It was two days after New Year's, and the entire island was full to the brim with rich, globe-trotting people anxious to play as hard as they could until driven back to their daily lives after New Year's. Carrow screeched into the horseshoe drive and slammed on the brakes. He reached over and indicated the bottle.

“May I?” he said.

She handed it to him. “Sure.”

He unscrewed the top and Emma watched him gulp down some more of the liquid. He offered it to her but she waved it off.

Music echoed on the night air and a babble of voices came from behind the villa. The front of the house blazed with light thrown by two enormous lanterns placed on either side of a massive, carved wooden door. Carrow waited for her to climb out of the car and then got out himself and started toward the entrance, his right hand firmly clutching the bottle's neck.

A woman strolled out from next to the house, wearing only a white string bikini bottom with ties at each side and flip-flops. She was tall, emaciated, and had sharp-edged cheekbones and long honey-colored hair that reached the middle of her back. She carried an open whiskey bottle in one hand. Not the same brand that Carrow had, Emma noticed. She recognized the woman's face but couldn't place the name. She glanced at Carrow, but he seemed unconcerned at the woman's topless state.

“Hey, there you are,” the woman said. “We were just looking for you.” She peered at Emma. “Who's that?”

“Ms. Emma Caldridge, meet Britanni Warner.”

The woman's face lit up. “Oh, yeah, the botanist!”

Carrow shook his head. “Chemist, isn't it?” He directed his question at Emma.

“Both, actually. I study plants for their use in cosmetic applications,” Emma said.

“That's right,” the woman said. “Cindy told me about her. Her lab makes the ‘Pure Colors' makeup line that Cindy reps.” Emma realized then where she had seen Warner before. She was a famous model, and the face that represented a second line of makeup sold in high-end department stores. “Are you here for vacation?” Warner asked her.

Emma shook her head. “Work. The company that you mentioned is the one paying for me to be here. I'm on the search for new botanicals.”

“She's staying on the East Hill at Blue Heron.”

“I know it. Nice location,” Warner said.

“The view is spectacular,” Emma said.

“I'm taking her to Martin's room.”

Warner grimaced. “He's still sleeping. I hope you can help him. I'll be at the pool.” She nodded to them, and Emma listened to the sound of her flip-flops snapping away.

Carrow waved her into the front door. The living room lights were set low. Wicker furniture and bamboo coffee tables sat on dark wooden floors. A bank of glass doors spanned the far wall, and through them Emma could see the outlines of a large infinity pool. At least thirty people lounged around it under the flames of citronella torches, while others in swimsuits floated on inner tubes. The whole scene appeared out of place, late as it was. She saw Warner walk to a lounge chair and pick up her swimsuit top. Music played, but not Rex Rain. Emma knew most of Carrow's hits, and the current selection wasn't one of them. The house was set high on the hill, and beyond the pool the ocean view would have been sweeping had it not been night. Now all she could see was the occasional wave as it undulated under the moonlight.

“Is the whole house awake?” she asked.

Carrow nodded. “After eighteen months on tour and playing gigs every night, we have become essentially nocturnal.”

“Eighteen months is a long time.”

He gave her a glance. “It will be two and a half years before we're done. In that time I'll have had all of four weeks off. These two and another two in March.”

A woman in her mid-forties stepped in through the French doors that led to the pool area. She had black hair and wore a bathing suit with a sheer white tunic top over it and flip-flops decorated with rhinestones. Emma recognized her as Belinda Rory, a woman made famous by the cable show
The Other Side.
She claimed she could speak to the dead, among other things. Her arresting brown eyes passed over Emma in a focused assessment.

“Is he awake?” Rory said to Carrow. He shrugged.

“Dunno. Going there now.”

“If you need me just let me know.” She nodded once at Emma and started across the living room to a swinging door on the opposite wall. When she pushed through it, Emma saw the front panel of a stainless steel refrigerator. The door closed behind her.

“Wasn't that the famous television medium?” Emma asked.

Carrow nodded. “Martin invited her. He wanted to speak to Jimi Hendrix.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “And how did that go?”

Carrow gave her an amused look. “Apparently he was otherwise occupied.” Emma suppressed her own smile. In her travels she'd seen many things that appeared unexplainable, and had learned not to dismiss too readily anything that was new or unusual. Still, she didn't believe in mediums, or that they could speak to the dead.

They entered a hallway and passed into a bedroom. This room, too, had glass doors where the wall should be and another breathtaking view of the ocean. Emma moved toward a large four-poster bed made of teak with a mosquito net pulled back on each side. A man lay there, sleeping. His eyes were closed and his face had a peaceful look. A sheet was pulled up to his chest.

“He's wearing clothes,” she said.

“He was drinking right before.” Carrow pointed to a carafe on a nightstand that was filled with red wine. Next to it was a glass, and next to that a pile of powder. Emma stepped closer.

“Is this it?” she said.

“Yes.”

Emma reached to a lamp on the nightstand and moved it closer, taking care not to disturb the powder. It was a dirty, beige color. “What's his usual powder of choice?”

“Not powder, pills. Roxy's.”

OxyContin. Emma wasn't surprised. The prescription pill had taken over the drug world. What was on the nightstand wasn't it, though, that was clear. OC was blue. The color was off.

“He sometimes uses China White, so I initially thought this was just some cheap stuff he'd picked up on a nearby island on his way here, but that's not heroin.” Emma didn't want to ask Carrow how he could be so sure it wasn't heroin, but she needed to know if he'd taken it himself. If he had and hadn't fallen asleep, then perhaps the powder wasn't the culprit.

“Did you try it? Is that how you know it's not?”

Carrow shook his head. “I don't do heroin, or Oxy, but I've seen plenty of both, and this isn't it. Plus, Martin said he wasn't going to do heroin anymore.”

“He could have been lying.”

Carrow grimaced. “Martin lies a lot, but I believed him when he said it.”

Emma moved closer to the bed, and her toe hit something. She bent down to retrieve whatever it was and her hand closed on a dry shape that felt like wood. It was the root of a plant, bent with two tendrils that twisted downward. She held it up to show Carrow. He leaned in to get a closer look.

“Is it ginger root?”

Emma turned it over, looking at it from all sides. She'd never actually seen the root. She didn't think it was indigenous to the island, but it was easy to grow and required only abundant moisture and warm temperatures, both of which were plentiful in Terra Cay.

“It's mandrake.”

“What's mandrake?”

“A plant that acts as a narcotic when ingested.” The root was the exact color of the pile of powder on the nightstand. “It looks as though he grated it into a powder and drank it. Probably with the wine.” Emma watched Carrow closely. She could see his expression harden.

“What a fool that man is. If it's a drug, Martin will take it. Will he come awake? Or do I need to get him to a clinic?”

“It can be dangerous. When added to wine it will make the person ingesting it fall asleep and be insensible. The ancient civilizations used it as an anesthetic when stitching wounds, and it's said that it was administered in Rome to those being crucified so they wouldn't feel the pain. Gave some of the Roman soldiers a fright when the crucified were taken down because they'd come back to life. Where did he get his hands on this?”

Carrow sighed. “I haven't the slightest idea. It's no secret that Martin spends most of his time drunk or high, but honestly he's always taken drugs that are commercially available. I've never known him to make his own from a root. This is new.”

Emma handed him the plant. “I don't think mandrake is native to the island so you'd better look around your villa to see if he's cultivating it somewhere.” Carrow took the root from her with a look of distaste.

“We're supposed to start recording in two days and I need him to be awake. If I find it I'll be sure to yank it all out. His little drug garden will be gone.”

“Be careful with that. The legends say that mandrake screams when you pull it from the ground and if you hear it you'll die.”

Carrow gave her an appalled look. “Screams? Are you serious?”

“Some say that the ancients used to tie a rope to a dog's tail and have the dog pull it out. They would blow a trumpet at the precise moment to muffle the scream.” Carrow leaned closer and his cologne wafted over her. She didn't recognize the scent but it smelled delicious. She could see a glint of humor in his eyes.

“I'll be sure to rip it out during one of our recording sessions. Half the critics complain that we don't make music at all. Just a tremendous amount of noise. Mandrake screams have nothing on Rex Rain.”