by Dan Alatorre
Constantine’s gaze darted to the vehicle they’d arrived in. The side of the dirty, dented vehicle said Jeep Wrangler.
She looked back at the woman. “You’ve not done this before, have you?” Constantine held her hand up to block the bright light. “The blindfold causes confusion between the optic receptors and the ones in the inner ear. Nausea and vomiting are a common result.”
The dark-haired man at the front of the line grumbled. “Quiet, you two. Nicole, vous parlez trop. Faites votre travail.”
Constantine translated in her head. You talk too much. Just do your job. And he had finally said a name—Nicole. Turning back to watch her step, Constantine whispered, “Dimenhydrinate may help next time. If you’re to do a lot of this.”
“Chut, fille.” Nicole lowered her voice. “You will get me into trouble. Go in the house, yes? It will be better when you get some food inside you.”
“Nicole!” the bearded man shouted.
“Arrête, esclavagiste!” Nicole scowled at him, waving her arm. “ J'ai eu une longue route, aussi!”
Constantine kept her head down. Nicole’s tone was sharp. She was angry with him. Stop, slave driver. I had a long drive, too.
The walkway to the old building looked to have been made mainly by foot traffic wearing down the rock. The ruts and holes along the walkway had been filled in with gravel; otherwise, it looked like everything else. It was all gray, everywhere—the walk, the fill, the area outside the walk—all of it. Everything here was stone. Everything but the building.
At the house entrance, the dark-haired man flung the old door open and walked straight in, letting the door bang shut behind him. “Boueuse!”
Part of the painted structure was, or had been, two stories high, with some sort of tower at the back, but all of it was weather-worn and falling apart. Most of it had no roof.
The door bounced open on its rusted hinges, allowing the second man to grab it and hold it open for Constantine.
The bearded man looked around, calling out again. “Boueuse!”
The house was mostly empty inside, with sun shining through holes in the roof, but no water on the floor. The breeze was nearly as strong inside as it had been outside. The walls were faded and peeling, and an odd odor permeated the air. It smelled like the abandoned outhouse sites they had excavated on the older part of the chateau property—earthy, and with a hint of dry manure.
A man’s voice came from the back of the house somewhere, under the two-story section. “Je suis ici, Valentin. J'arrive. Un moment.”
Constantine nodded.
The bearded man is Valentin and he’s calling the other man “Muddy.”
Eating an apple, a large man came into the room. The men spoke in French.
Valentin asked if everything was set; Muddy replied that it was, “as far as can be,” and said they had been instructed to not start for a few days.
Frowning, Valentin cursed and walked out the rear door. The bright blue colors of the ocean filled the door frame as he passed through.
Constantine put her hands to her belly, a nervous twinge going through her.
We’re high up on a cliff somewhere.
“Girl!” Valentin shouted.
Nicole nudged Constantine again. “Go. Do not be afraid.”
Constantine peered up at the young woman. “I’m not afraid.”
“No.” Nicole smiled. “You are very brave. But still, you must go now to your . . . cabine de couchage. Your sleeping quarters.”
As Constantine walked across the room, the other kidnapper chuckled. She hadn’t gotten his name yet, but they were being careless now, relaxing and letting their guard down, so it would only be a matter of time.
The man shook his head. “Ses quartiers pour dormir? Sa cellule de prison, vous voulez dire.”
His words struck fear into Constantine.
“Her sleeping quarters? You mean her prison cell.”
She pushed open the rear door and stepped outside. The rush of waves sounded over the stony slope. To the right, a small rock building had been erected, with a crooked metal roof and low walls. The sea raged far below, crashing into the rocks and sending out a white spray in all directions. In the distance, a few other islands rose up from the surf.
“Here, girl.” Valentin pointed to the stone cabin. “Come with me.” Grabbing her arm, he hauled Constantine along with him. “This will be your new home. Don’t wet yourself when you see it.”
She jerked her hand away. “I’m not afraid of an ugly old house. I’m certainly not afraid of you.”
“No?” Valentine raised his hand and slapped Constantine across the face. “What about now?”
A firebolt of pain shot across Constantine’s cheek as she tumbled backwards. Her bottom hit the hard stone surface. She gasped, recoiling from Valentin.
“Espèce d'animal!” Nicole raced forward. “Tu frapperais un enfant? She shoved Valentin away, turning to Constantine. “Are you okay?”
Panting, Constantine put her hand to her cheek, her eyes wide.
“This is not how things are supposed to be!” Nicole shoved Valentin again. “Get away. Go to a barn if you will behave like an animal.”
Gritting his teeth, Valentin grabbed Constantine’s wrist and yanked her to her feet, pulling her toward the cabin. “Put her inside and shut the door.” He turned, his face red, glaring at Constantine. “Do not test me again, girl.” Dropping her hand, he stormed toward the main house. “Or you, Nicole! More than one body has gone off that cliff never to be seen again.”
When he reached the house, he threw open the door and shouted for Muddy.
“Go and do your job, dimwit!”
Muddy exited the main building, rushing to the cabin.
A large fence ran from the sides of the house and out to the cliffs, effectively encompassing the cabin on all sides. The top of the fence was covered in razor wire. Rusted yellow signs hung from it, with lightning bolts painted on them, and the words Electric Fence, High Voltage.
At the front of the house, the Jeep’s engine roared to life, its motor revving and its gears grinding as it bounced and lurched over the primitive road. Two men were visible inside.
Nicole stood, watching until the vehicle was far away. “Jean and Valentin have gone.” She sighed, squatting in front of Constantine. “I’m sorry, little one. That was . . . injustifiée. Uncalled for.”
“He won’t hurt you much bad,” Muddy said to Constantine. “He need you. You doesn’t going over the cliff, no.”
She swallowed hard as Muddy opened the cabin door. Stone steps descended to a gray stone floor, disappearing into darkness. A tiny window on the far side illuminated a small bed in one corner, with a pile of dirty blankets on it; a metal bucket stood in the other corner.
Muddy peered into the doorway. “Sors de là, putain.”
A thin woman with straggly black hair and too much makeup staggered up the steps. She giggled, speaking French. “He’s useless. He’s not a man.” The woman’s cocktail dress was wrinkled and her high heels were dirty. A dozen bracelets adorned each of her wrists. Tattoos covered her arms and legs.
Muddy replied in French. “Wait for me at the main house. I will get your payment.” He turned to Nicole. “Take her. I will do this part.”
“Are . . . you sure?” Nicole put her hand to her lip.
Muddy nodded. “You don’t want to see it. Now, go.”
As the women walked to the house, Muddy looked at Constantine, speaking his broken English. “Come, girl.” He held his hand out. “You doesn’t be afraid.”
Constantine slipped her tiny hand into Muddy’s massive one, a knot growing in her stomach. The skin of his fingers and palms were cracked and rough. Lowering his head, he crept down the steps.
The inside of the cabin reeked of feces and vomit, only lessened by the wind blowing through the interior. Flies hummed over the metal bucket. To the left was a small door, with another one on the rear wall. Through the second one, the giant blue oce
an was visible, and the other islands.
Muddy stood in the center of the room. “This is your home, girl. You doesn’t try to run away.” He wagged his finger at Constantine. “That big fence, it fry you croustillant, and the cliffs take you a hundred feet to your death.” Muddy smacked his hands together. “The rocks below are like cheese shredder, and the currents are big-strong. Push you back over the rocks again and again, until your skin is scrape off and your arms and legs get slice cut away. You doesn’t go there, hokay?”
She stared out the tiny window of the rear door. The beautiful, clear sky came down to meet the jagged top of the gray stone.
“You are stay here,” Muddy said. “Later will be food, hokay?”
Constantine nodded. “Okay.”
Muddy walked to the steps.
“Why do they call you that name?”
He stopped and turned around, facing her.
“The other man—the one with the beard. He calls you Boueuse. That means muddy, like wet dirt. I learned that on a field trip. Why does he call you that?”
Muddy pulled at the hem of his t-shirt.
“I don’t think it’s very nice,” Constantine said. “I won’t call you that.”
“I doesn’t care what you call me, girl. Just remember what I tell you. There is no run away here. If you try, you fall to the rocks.”
Muddy lowered his head walked up the steps, shutting the wooden door behind him.
A gust of wind lifted Constantine’s hair into her eyes. She turned to the rear door, walking over to it and putting her hand to the knob.
The tarnished brass knob turned, and the old door creaked open.
She stood there, gazing out over the gray stone landscape, the wind blowing her hair back. In the distance, a rainbow shined between the two other islands.
“They don’t lock it.”
Constantine jumped, turning toward the bed. She put her hands to her belly as the pile of dirty blankets sat up.
A ragged man with a long beard stared at her, his face worn like old leather. He coughed, wiping a stained finger across his mouth, smearing it with blood.
Constantine backed away, her heart pounding, until she bumped into the stone wall.
“They don’t lock it,” he said. “Because they don’t need to.”
His voice was raspy and harsh, with a French accent. His skin was saggy and cracked—dark, from too much sun and too little care, and covered in liver spots. His head hung down on his chest, his shoulders thin and sagging. His greasy hair hung from his head in long, unkempt strands. His shirt was dirty and stained under each arm; his pants were frayed and full of holes, letting his bony knees poke through. His filthy, black-stained feet brushed the floor, his long yellow toenails chipped and broken.
He looked at Constantine with bloodshot eyes. “What that giant oaf said is true. There’s no escaping here. The rocks on the ledge crumble under your feet. You will fall and you will die, like the others did. I should know. I had to recover the bodies. Terrible sight.”
Constantine forced herself to breathe.
“You’re the one they told me about.” He pointed a long, gnarled finger at her. “From the chateau.”
She nodded, her pulse throbbing in her ears. The crook of his arm was filled with a series of red dots, like those left from syringes.
The man coughed again, displaying his sparse brown teeth as he glanced around the room. “Don’t worry, child. This is my Hell, not yours.” He stared at her with red eyes. “But you’ll be in your Hell soon enough, and yours is much worse.”
Chapter 27
The ambulance parked on the side of a long runway at the Paris Le Bourget airport. As Hollings clutched the sides of his wheelchair, his attendants lowered him to the tarmac. His jaw hung open as he stared up at a massive plane. “Cor blimey, that’s a big bird.”
“It’s a C-130 cargo plane.” Miss Franklin heaved a backpack over her shoulder and grabbed the wheelchair handles, pushing Hollings across the tarmac. “The U.S. Air Force sold them to Brazil, who sold it to Armen Twa. Now it’s our ride to The Bahamas.” The aircraft’s massive wings stuck out close to fifty feet on each side, with two giant propellers on each. A platform lowered from the rear of the giant plane. Service personnel jumped out of a luggage tram and unloaded various crates and boxes, pushing them up into the aircraft’s belly. Franklin pushed the wheelchair toward the plane’s gangway steps. “There are a few dozen seats in the front, and a nice big cargo area in the back for our guests—with plenty of welded metal hooks, just right for a set of handcuffs. Nice and cold back there, at altitude.”
Hollings ran a hand over his fat, bearded chin. “I can’t bloody well lock the old girl up in the back, then, can I? That sounds a bit dodgy, and she’s integral to this deal.”
“Not the Keeper,” Franklin said. “Her friends—Trinn and DeShear. Of course, I recommend we gag them so they don’t make too much noise. The old woman can sit up front with us, as long as she behaves.”
“Aye. Likely, she won’t do that, neither. But I’ve a remedy.”
The pilot approached Hollings. “Sir, we are fueled and ready to depart at your request.”
“Then let’s get underway.” Hollings stood, grabbing the rail of the steps. “And Miss Franklin, would you be so kind as to ask Dr. Freeman to come have a chat with me regarding Keeper 27 before the plane takes off? And tell him to bring his sedative syringes.”
* * * * *
Hollings leaned on his cane, staring down the aisle of the giant plane. The middle section appeared to have been retrofitted to be similar to a regular airliner. Rows of four cloth seats, with ample legroom between them. The front section, just behind the cockpit, held several private suites and a board room.
Hollings whistled, gazing at the polished mahogany bedroom in the luxurious front suite. “Armen Twa travels in style.”
Miss Franklin escorted Keeper 27 to her seat, helped her buckle up, then stood in the aisle next to her.
“Aye, old woman.” Hollings limped toward them, leaning on his cane. “Ready for a nice long overseas flight?”
Dr. Freeman followed Hollings down the aisle.
“We’ve got just the thing to keep you from pulling any tricks on this flight.” Hollings turned to the doctor. “If you would administer the shot, doctor.”
Keeper 27’s eyes went wide. “No!” She lurched backwards in her chair. “Please, no!”
Franklin grabbed the old woman’s wrists, pinning them to the armrests. “Hold still. This won’t hurt.”
Dr. Freeman held up the syringe, tapping the barrel and easing the plunger forward. A drop of liquid glimmered at the top of the long, shiny needle.
“No, please!” Keeper 27 twisted under Franklin’s grip, stomping the floor. “Mr. Hollings—you know what these do. Please don’t.”
Hollings leaned in, his face close to hers. “And just what do they do, Keeper 27? They give you the sight?”
She trembled, staring at the shot. “Please.”
“Tell me.” Hollings licked his lips. “What happens when a sedative is administered to your old hide? What do you see?”
“Awful things.” She shook, her mouth hanging open. “Terrible things.”
“Such as a group of children in caps, having the transmission cranked up so high it fried their little brains? Is that what you saw? No. You were right there and you didn’t see that. Stop playing games. What do you see?”
“Please.” She shook her head. “No.”
“Tell me. Now.” He pointed to Dr. Freeman. “The shot’s coming! Talk.”
Groaning, she turned away. “Please.”
“Do it,” Hollings shouted. “Give it to her!”
“Death!” Keeper 27 screamed. “I see death. Bullets flying, bodies falling. I see people with guns, shooting everyone and everything.”
“Where?” Hollings leaned closer. “Is Armen Twa planning a double cross?”
“I can’t.” Keeper 27 swallowed hard, her eyes sq
ueezed shut. “I can’t see where.”
“Lies!” He grabbed her collar. “I gathered fifty armed men on this plane. It’s them you saw, isn’t it?”
“Many will die.” Keeper 27 cried. “It’s terrible.”
“Where?” He shook her. “Where?”
“At the airport.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Hollings let her go, standing. “We’ll have the upper hand.”
“You won’t.” She glared at him, tears in her eyes. “The Asian man is preparing to do the same to you. He wears a tan hat with a black band on it.”
Hollings nodded, rubbing his beard. “That’s probably him—Armen Twa. Good work, old lass. I knew you’d be of use.” He turned to Freeman. “Now give her the shot.”
“What!” Keeper 27 said. “No!”
“Bah.” Hollings stepped away, leaning on his cane. “I’ll not be having any antics on this flight, old girl. Nor you telling your secrets to anyone who cares to listen. You know me better than that.”
Franklin held the old woman down while Freeman shoved the needle into her vein. Keeper 27 struggled for a few seconds, then fell still.
“Check her pulse, you quack,” Hollings said. “Make sure you haven’t killed her.”
Freeman put two fingers to the old woman’s neck. “She’s fine. Sleeping soundly. That’ll last until we get to The Bahamas, at least.”
“Good.” Hollings turned, heading toward the mahogany suite. “Have another shot ready for after we pick up her friends, but keep it out of sight. I’ll not have her acting up during the second leg of our journey, either.”
Miss Franklin stepped forward, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of her belt. She slipped one cuff around Keeper 27’s left wrist and ratcheted it snug to the old woman’s wrinkly flesh. The other cuff went through a hole in the armrest, locking Keeper 27’s arm in place. A second pair of cuffs went on the other arm and was secured to the armrest between the seats.
Franklin stood up and looked at Dr. Freeman. “Now she won’t be going anywhere.”
“I’d have thought the sedative would be enough.”
“That’s why you’re the doctor and I’m the tactics expert.” She slipped the handcuff key into the breast pocket of her shirt. “It’s my job to make sure things stay where I put them.”
