Vanishing Act (21 page)

“Margaret Pearson. His name is William Bell.”

“Shut the hell up, Margie.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up. I told you we needed to stop at five years. Did you listen? No, you were too greedy. We wouldn’t be in this position if you had listened to me. Maybe you want to die, but I don’t. I told you we would get caught, but you wouldn’t listen. God, I hate you, Bill.”

“I know someone who hates him more than you do,” Yoko said grimly.

The Sisters whirled around when they heard loud banging on the door. The doorbell shrilled at the same time.

“Quick!” Annie shouted. “Drag these two into the bathroom and close the door. Stuff a towel at the bottom of the door. Alexis, take the tops off the beehives.”

The Sisters moved to the front door as millions of bees invaded the apartment. Kathryn opened the door, and the bees swirled ahead of her, a monstrous black swarm. The crowd of police, reporters, and Watergate security ran for cover.

“Killer bees, cover your faces,” Isabelle barked as she headed for the
EXIT
sign. She held open the door until the others were through and on the steps. She propped open the stairwell door. On the third floor, Annie propped open that door, and Myra did the same thing on the second floor. When they reached the first floor, the swarm of bees was buzzing so loudly that people were covering their ears and trying to seek shelter.

“Killer bees! Run! Cover your faces! If you get bitten, go to the hospital immediately,” Kathryn shouted over and over.

The Sisters kept up Kathryn’s chant as they made their way to the door leading to the street outside.

Directly in their line of vision was a large white van that said
HAZMAT
on the panel in bold black letters. As far as the eye could see, people were running down the street, away from the Watergate—except for Joe Espinosa, who had his camera at the ready. Ted Robinson was texting so fast that time seemed to stop. From time to time they swatted at any pesky bees that got too close.

The Sisters lined up, removed their headgear, and gave a slow, sweeping bow as Espinosa clicked and clicked. The pictures were on their way to the
Post
even as Alexis winked at him, then blew him an air kiss.

Their work done, the Sisters ran for the van and climbed inside. “Whoever you are, burn rubber,” Annie bellowed.

“My pleasure, ladies.”

“Charles!” the Sisters shouted in unison.

“They weren’t really killer bees, were they, Charles?” Myra asked anxiously.

Charles laughed. “No, they were honeybees.”

The questions came fast and furious. “Why are you here? What happened? Where are we going? Tell us!”

“All in good time, ladies. I have to keep my eyes on the road to make sure we arrive at our destination safely.”

Kathryn looked out of one of the dark-tinted windows. “I might be wrong, but I think we have an escort, front and back. Oh, and on the left side, too.”

Charles laughed. “Never leave anything to chance.”

Back at the Watergate, police,
FBI
agents, and a lone woman were standing near the doorway to the front entrance.

“I’m not saying you were wrong, Miss Augustine, but I’m not saying you were right either,” Bert Navarro said.

“Then how do you explain that photographer taking those pictures? The vigilantes took off those crazy-looking head covers and posed. I
SAW
it with my own eyes,” Sharon Augustine cried indignantly.

“Well, when I see it with my own eyes, I will make sure the
FBI
acknowledges your tip.” Bert moved off toward a quasifriend he knew in the police department, who was standing next to the curb looking glum.

“Those crazy-ass women did it again! Killer bees! This whole damn town is going to go to red alert. Who the hell would have thought of bumblebees? The vigilantes made jackasses out of us. Again! I’m thinking my pension is suddenly looking not so good. What’s your excuse, Navarro?” Leroy Jackson demanded.

“Honeybees, not killer bees. Not even bumblebees. There’s a difference! Nine hives were in that apartment! That translates into millions of bees. The queen was among them! Don’t even ask me what that means because I don’t know. Some beekeeper from Bethesda is on his way to take charge of the hives.”

“How’d those guys from the
Post
know to be here just when the vigilantes were leaving? Seems to me if you’re paying attention, and I’m paying attention, they always manage to show up to get their damn pictures. Something’s fishy there. I’m going to haul their asses in and go a few rounds with them. Don’t give me any of that shit that it’s just good reporting, that seventh sense that newshounds have. What do the brains in the Hoover Building think?” Detective Jackson asked.

Bert forced a laugh he didn’t feel. “They’re saying those women are smarter than we are. I’m not so sure they aren’t right.”

“You know what I think, Navarro? I think they have people here in the District helping them. Powerful people, influential people. That’s what I think.”

“All you have to do is prove it, Jackson. That’s not to say I disagree with you. On the contrary, I think like you do, but those influential, important people can bite you on the ass if you start something you can’t prove. You want to haul Robinson and Espinosa in, go for it. Been there, done that. You’ll have Lizzie Fox so far up your ass, you won’t be able to sit for a week. She’ll be at the station before you can get those two through the door. Like I said, been there, done that. By the way, you didn’t hear this from me, but the rumor is she’s going to be chief White House counsel. They offered her the job. What’s-his-name has some kind of medical condition and he’s moving on and the job was offered to Fox. Now, that’s what I call being high-powered and influential. You want to take a shot at it, go for it.”

“Did those two suspects give up anything when your guys hauled them off?” Jackson asked.

“Singing like canaries! Especially the woman! She just kept howling that she’s allergic to bees. The guy kept telling her to shut up. He’ll break, too.”

“So what happens now?” Jackson asked.

“Depends on the vigilantes. The woman said the vigilantes have all their records. Will they do the right thing and turn those records over? I think so. I’m sure the
Post
will report on it with a special edition. Stay tuned. Nice talking to you, Jackson. Call me if you want to go out for a beer sometime.”

Detective Leroy Jackson watched Director Bert Navarro walk away. Yeah, like he was really going to call him to go out for a beer. His years on the force along with his cop’s instinct told him Navarro knew more than he let on, but Jackson knew better than to tangle with the
FBI
. Those guys from the
Post
, now, that was something else entirely. That damn paper always came out on top, and he didn’t think it was due to diligent reporting. He’d bet his pension they had an inside track to those damn vigilantes. He sighed, knowing when he got back to the precinct there would be a message that the police commissioner and the mayor wanted an audience with him, and not at his convenience.

Seven more years and he could file for his pension.
Screw influential people who perch in high places.
Navarro was right, let some other dick-weed go after those damn women. Seven more years and he was home free.

“These pictures are absolutely delicious, Espinosa. I’m thinking this time, as a show of good faith, we share them with
MSNBC
. We don’t want to be accused of being biased, now, do we?” Maggie chortled. “Damn, you guys are the best!”

Ted and Espinosa beamed with pleasure.

“Absolutely, we do not want to be accused of being biased! How come you aren’t going with a special edition?” Ted asked.

“Because, gentlemen, we have someplace to go in exactly ten minutes. This paper is going to be running itself for a little while. I worked it all out. Go home, pack a bag, and meet me out at Dulles. Don’t ask questions. Go!”

Dressed in military camouflage, the Sisters stepped out of the white van, the two dogs in tow. They walked in military precision to the waiting plane. Charles and Myra were the last to get out of the van.

“Hold on, Myra. I brought something for you.” Charles reached into his pocket and brought out Myra’s heirloom pearls. He handed them to her. “I hate those chains you’ve been wearing. It’s time to put these back on.”

Myra’s eyes filled with tears. She smiled as she stuffed her beloved pearls into her own pocket. “What’s in the bag, Charles?” she asked when she finally got her tongue to work.

Charles laughed, a great, booming sound. “The yellow comforter.”

I
t was an island with no name. Nor was it on any map. Rumor had it that at one time the nine-mile-long island belonged to a Colombian drug lord. No one knew who the true owner was, nor did the vigilantes care. All they knew was that they were in a tropical paradise with every luxury their hearts desired.

They were enjoying an Olympic-size pool, tennis court, putting green, and a stable with six magnificent horses for the guests. There was also a guesthouse with eight bedrooms along with a dormitory-style room with a triple bath for unexpected visitors. The Sisters and guests had arrived on three Gulfstream jets, and the pilots were currently occupying the large dorm room. The staff consisted of two groomsmen, a five-star chef, three maids, two groundskeepers, and a majordomo of sorts.

The main house, or, as the girls called it, the mansion, itself held seventeen rooms, nine bathrooms, three powder rooms, a gourmet kitchen, and a dining room that seated twenty at its massive table.

The most important features of the island with no name that wasn’t on any map were the impressive landing strip—just off of which the three Gulfstreams nested inside a hangar that any international airport would have envied—the sleek white yacht at anchor whose crew stayed onboard, and the paved roads leading to the mansion from the landing strip. Then there were the six all-terrain vehicles in a seven-car garage that also held massive generators and Deepfreezes.

A sea of beautiful flowers, some wild, most cultivated, were profuse and every color of the rainbow. Yoko wandered around the formal flowerbeds and through the English garden in the back of the mansion, her eyes alight as she named flower after flower. The Sisters all agreed this very private place had to be one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

An island unto itself.

The guests of the island with no name were sitting poolside.

“This is beyond anything I’ve ever seen, even in the movies. Who owns it, Charles? Are we safe here? How did you find it? Can we trust the people working here?” Annie babbled as she sniffed the fragrant air that permeated the island.

The others looked up, wanting to know the answers as much as Annie did.

Charles smiled. “You own it, Annie. You are definitely safe here. This island has no name and is not on any map. Everything has been camouflaged. It cannot be seen from the air. There are mines out there in the water, all compliments of the previous owner, who was indeed a drug lord. The captain of the yacht knows exactly how to maneuver through them. I am not at liberty at this time to tell you how I found this little island paradise. The staff is as trustworthy as the people who guard the president of the United States.”

The Sisters stared at Annie, who was staring at Charles in disbelief. “When did I buy this…this little place?”

Charles laughed. “Two years ago when I asked you if you would be interested in buying an—”

“Island resort,” Annie said. “This is a little more than an island resort, Charles.”

“That’s true, but it’s how it was listed in the
Times’s
real estate section: ‘Island resort for sale.’ I sent an inquiry, and a very prestigious white-shoe law firm responded to my inquiry. The drug lord’s funds were confiscated, and he needed money to pay for his legal defense. Fifty million was what you paid for it. I haggled. The asking price was $120,000,000. I offered cash, and the firm snapped it up. This island is almost as big as Guam, which is eleven miles in length. Of course, unlike Guam, the major portion of this island is uninhabited. A sterling investment, if I do say so. Anytime you want to develop it, you could in the end make billions of dollars. I was thinking into the future.

“I thought we might need a safe haven at some point in time. Just in case Pappy gets tired of living on your mountain in Spain and wants to return to Big Pine Mountain. It’s called thinking ahead and anticipating things before they happen.”

Annie looked around. “And worth every penny,” she said spiritedly.

The others clapped their hands in approval.

“It should have a name even if it’s just among ourselves,” Isabelle grumbled.

The Sisters kicked that around for a while but were unable to come up with a suitable name for the luxurious paradise. They shelved the project, vowing to come up with just the right one before it was time to leave to return to Big Pine Mountain.

Charles excused himself to go back inside. He headed straight for the massive library. He looked around at the shiny teakwood bookshelves that covered the walls on three sides of the room. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the floor-to-ceiling shelves could hold every work of notable English language fiction published in the past fifty years. He reached for a book and wasn’t surprised to see that the spine hadn’t been broken. He couldn’t help but wonder if the drug lord was a reader. The law firm had told him very little other than that the house had been built by Guatemalan craftsmen—every board, nail, and pane of glass imported and top-grade. The law firm had attested to the fact that the drug lord hadn’t had a chance to inspect or visit the finished project before he’d been arrested in Venezuela just as he was about to board his private jet.

Charles replaced the book and walked over to the strange-looking desk across the room. A monstrous slab of concrete sat on two ornate pedestals. The slab had been lacquered to a high shine and held everything he would need to stay in contact with the outside world. All wireless and secure, of course. Before he sat down in the custom-made leather chair, he looked around approvingly. Either the drug lord had exquisite taste, or his Guatemalan decorator did.