Black Widow df-15

by Randy Wayne White

  “Quiet. No need to say my name.”

  “You’re not… wait… I don’t-”

  I pushed the door wider and held a finger to my lips. Shhhhh.

  There was the sound of ocean waves in this dimly lit room where there was a lamp broken on the floor and bedsheets were in a heap near an overturned chair. It looked like the aftermath of a fight.

  Senegal, in her dressing gown, was a wilted gray shape in the corner, a glass in her hand, ready to throw. She stepped away from the wall when she recognized me, and I touched my lips again.

  She moved closer, whispering, “I’m very glad you’re here.”

  I was looking at the ceiling. No smoke alarm, no fire sprinklers. On the chest of drawers, though, was a radio clock like mine. Senegal said nothing as I walked toward the clock as if approaching a snake, then slowly turned it toward the wall.

  “Why are you-?”

  I shook my head-quiet-as I walked around the bed and put my hands on her arms. I expected a response when I pulled her close and put my cheek next to hers. There was none. The woman leaned against my chest, stiff as a mannequin.

  “Keep your voice down. There’s a miniature camera in the clock. Probably a microphone hidden somewhere, too.”

  “I suspected.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t think they can monitor all the rooms at the same time. Odds are in our favor-especially if they believe I work here. I think the staff visits the guests on a regular basis.”

  She nodded, her body beginning to tremble as she said in a normal voice, “Of course I know who you are. You work here. It’s good to see you again.”

  The woman caught on fast.

  I put my mouth next to her ear. “Senny… it’s all right now. He’s gone.”

  She nodded again. “Are you very sure?” Her nightgown was damp. Her skin felt too cool.

  “Yes. You’re safe.”

  Slowly, as if thawing, her body softened against my chest. She moved her hands to the back of my shoulders, relying on them to support her weight as she melted into me. I felt her shudder, then felt her breath on my neck as she whispered, “How bloody awful to have to pretend to be brave when you’re not.”

  I said, “That’s the definition of bravery.”

  “You’re wrong, I’m afraid. It really is a bastard of an act to pull off.”

  “Whatever you did, it worked. He’s not coming back.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “One way or the other, yes, I’m certain.”

  The woman pulled away, and stood on her own. “I feel absolutely drained. He almost saw me cry-silly of me to care about something so trivial, but I didn’t want to give him satisfaction. And I didn’t, by God!”

  Senegal was a tough one, already rallying. I was relieved, but had to remind her, “Your voice. Whisper.”

  “Yes, of course.” She looked at the clock radio, then at the mess on the floor. “I was being filmed the entire time… with him?”

  “Filmed or monitored. Maybe both.”

  “Then we finally have the bugger. He thought he could seduce me again. When I refused, he tried to force me. I gave him a hell of a whack on the face. If a jury sees the film, off he goes to prison. Fabron-such an absurd name.”

  I said, “Seduce you again?”

  “Yes.” The woman moved from the shadows to the bed, and sat in silence for several seconds, neatening her nightgown. I reached into the bathroom, hit the switch, then adjusted the door so a wafer of light reached her. Her sleeve was ripped. Buttons were missing from her gown.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. This time I fought back. He was the one who came to the villa the night I was filmed. I never thought I’d see him again. But when I showed up for my massage appointment, there he was. Came into the room after I was already undressed and under the sheet-smiling that sickening smile of his.

  “He recognized me, of course. Expected to continue where we’d left off. So I’ve been doing it all day, pretending to be brave. He damn near succeeded during the massage. He… knew how to do things with his hands. I nearly gave in, but I didn’t. Then about ten minutes ago, he tapped on my door and wanted to give it another try. I’d hoped it was you.”

  There was a carafe filled with herbal tea and ice on the nightstand. She poured as she whispered, drinking from the glass she’d intended to throw. I shook my head when she offered it to me, then watched her gulp the glass empty.

  “I was parched… didn’t even realize it until this moment. But what I really need is a tumbler of gin. God, what I’d give for a bottle of iced Plymouth.” She laughed-yes, a strong woman-then looked toward the light that angled from the bathroom. “Would we be safer there?”

  I said, “I’ll check.” A few seconds later, I said, “It’s clear.”

  She was still thirsty. The glass hid her face as she came toward me. I was saying, “I think it’s best if we-” but stopped as she lowered the glass. When Senegal saw my expression, she looked at the floor, as if ashamed, and covered her left cheek with the palm of her hand. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  I had to move her hand to look. What I’d mistaken for shadow was a bruise that was beginning to swell, already showing purple hues.

  “He hit you.”

  She nodded, still looking at the floor. When I released her hand, she used it to hide the bruise again.

  “More than once?”

  “No. Well… only hard once. But I told you, I hit him first. Gave him a hell of a whack. I was surprised no one heard us! And during the massage, I let him go farther than I should-it’s only right to admit it. I don’t know what got into me. So, in a way, he’s not entirely to blame.”

  It was a struggle to keep my voice low. “That’s nonsense. You know it.” Now I was beginning to shake.

  “I’m only trying to be fair. And there’s something else-please understand. I can’t bear to have my photo in any more magazines. Or more stories telling lies about my personal life. A woman who whores about in the tropics, that’s how they’ll portray me. It’s precisely what will happen if we complain to management, or the police-”

  I said, “You’re in charge. I won’t say a word,” as I sat next her. “Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do. So calm down, it’s going to be okay. We need to get some ice on that bruise.”

  “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your understanding-” Senegal flinched when I rested my hand on her shoulder, then turned to look at me. “Your body’s shaking. Why?”

  I stood and found the ice bucket. “I’m upset,” I said, because it was easier than explaining symptoms of rage. “It’s not safe here. As a favor, I’d like you to return to Saint Lucia in the morning. There’s a woman in Room three, a few doors down. Her name’s Beryl. She’s leaving on the first helicopter, too.”

  “You met her here?”

  “It’s a long story. Do you remember my room number? If there’s trouble, go there. The door’s unlocked.”

  I handed her a washcloth packed with ice, and watched her touch it to her face. “I’ll have some things to do, so don’t worry if I’m not there.” I drew the little semiautomatic and tossed it on the bed. “Use this if you need to-and don’t forget about Beryl. She’s a friend.”

  I made sure the woman’s door locked behind me, and I jogged toward the cliff they called the Lookout.

  30

  The employee who had created a situation, who had done something stupid, was Norma. As far as I knew, all she’d done was entrust me with the truth. If that was her crime, the truth had a heavy price on this island.

  Fabron had the woman over his shoulder, carrying her toward the rim of the cliff that jutted out over the sea. She was rolled into a section of carpet, like a mummy. I didn’t realize there was a person inside, at first. Didn’t know it was Norma until they passed me, almost to the cliff.

  The only reason I happened to spot Fabron was because he and Wolfie weren’t where I’d expected to find them, so I’d gone searchi
ng. Toussaint’s chateau was the logical second stop. Fabron wanted to see the Maji Blanc in her robes, with torches burning. Wolfie was his eager mentor. So that’s the direction I headed.

  I was almost to the cemetery when I noticed a figure in the distance. I had been walking fast, not jogging, sometimes turning full circles without stopping-alert. It was the only reason I saw Fabron before he saw me. Noticed a large shadow coming through the trees. The shadow became a man walking in the slow, staggering way men walk when they’re carrying something heavy.

  I had knelt behind gravestones and waited. Saw that it was Fabron when he took out a flashlight and shined it around. I saw that he was carrying a roll of something-carpet, maybe-and knew there had to be a person inside because of the weight, and what else bends to conform to a man’s shoulder?

  Had he killed Wolfie?

  I thought about it as he came closer, headed for the cliff. No.. . Fabron was big, but Wolfie was bigger. There was no way the man could carry Wolfie’s corpse several hundred yards.

  A corpse, that was my assumption. It was a thing-no movement, no cries of protest. But, as Fabron passed, the thing became a person again, dead or alive, because I recognized who it was. When he used the flashlight again, I saw a corded, butternut forearm, and the profile of a woman’s face and head flopping puppetlike on Fabron’s back.

  Norma.

  Maybe there was a hidden microphone in the massage room, but why kill her just for confiding in me, a guest? Or maybe it had to do with her job. She’d told me she was quitting soon. But then I reminded myself that Toussaint and her people didn’t need much of a reason. The night before, they’d killed Norma’s teenage nephew for pilfering orchids… or maybe he’d simply come to visit his aunt.

  Evil is seldom original. Typically, evil’s color is gray. The common criminal is common. Most are the spawn of yawning stupidity and the intellectually stunted. But Madame Toussaint was not a common criminal. She inflicted pain for profit. She enjoyed humiliating her victims, and it was unsettling to imagine how Norma had died.

  Fabron was a kindred sadist. I could hear him saying, If the woman’s got a decent body, why waste a chance at something like that? Toussaint would probably name him employee of the month.

  Fabron was moving so slowly, I’d have no trouble intercepting him at the cliff. But where was Wolfie?

  I was at the lookout waiting when Fabron came huffing and puffing into the clearing and dumped Norma’s body onto the ground. Despite the carpet shroud, her body made a flesh-and-bone thump when it hit.

  Still no sign of Wolfie.

  Fabron was big and lean, but he was cramping after carrying Norma’s body all that way. I watched him shrug and stretch, and roll his head-a massage therapist dealing with his own blockages-close enough that I could hear his breathing, and whispered profanities. I must have sounded like I was right beside him when I spoke. Raised my voice to ask, “Need a back rub, Fabio? Bad timing, killing Norma tonight.”

  “Huh?” The man whirled around, then used the flashlight to scan the area. Nothing to see in this clearing but the stone cross, the bench, the safety railing… and a solitary tree angling from the precipice, over the sea. I hadn’t tried to disguise my voice, but the ocean updraft had a hollow resonance. Fabron couldn’t pinpoint the source.

  “Enjoy the ceremony? Did the Maji Blanc’s skin really glow? Maybe she’ll pay you a visit. Leave you all scratched and bruised… like you left Senegal Firth.”

  The Frenchman turned again. “Funny game, trying to scare me. I am laughing!” But he didn’t laugh. I watched him take three careful steps and use the flashlight to check behind the stone cross. Then he yelled, “Who are you?”

  “Wolfie told you who I am. The La’Ja’bless, remember? I’m here.. . behind you.”

  Fabron didn’t fall for it. He crouched low, searching with the flashlight, fine-tuning with his ears, but was maybe actually scared, so I called, “I sent Dirk to the hospital. Crushed his ribs. Maybe I’ll send you to hell. Why did you kill Norma?”

  Fabron yelled, “I didn’t!” then took a deep breath, gathering himself as his head vectored slowly toward the solitary tree. He painted the canopy with his flashlight and began to creep toward the edge of the cliff, eyes fixed as he pulled something else from his pocket-a switchblade. He flipped the knife open, calling, "Where are you?”

  I didn’t reply. I was peering through exposed roots on the tree’s seaward side where, the night before, I’d tied the hundred feet of braided anchor line. My feet were on a narrow section of the goat path-a ledge not wide enough for my size 13 running shoes, so I had knotted a rough rappelling harness and roped myself in.

  Fabron was a curious man. He’d find out where I was-soon, I hoped. I didn’t want to spend any more time than I had to clinging to roots several hundred feet above the sea. The rope would hold, but I wasn’t sure about the tree. Loose stones and earth had showered down when I lowered myself to the ledge. Felt as if the roots were breaking free-a sickening sensation.

  I’d looked down only once. The phosphorescent cresting of waves below resembled the lights of a village seen from a jetliner. If the tree busted free, I would go with it.

  “Are you tired of your game? Why don’t you answer?” Fabron was closing in, and he no longer sounded rattled. Didn’t he believe that a one-eyed creature, the La’Ja’bless, roamed the night?

  No… he didn’t believe, because then he said, “You think you’re invisible? You’re only invisible to yourself. Maybe you should clean your ugly fucking glasses!” He was standing directly over me now.

  I had my left hand on what I hoped was a solid root, my right hand on the rope where it was knotted to the tree. I waited… waited even though he was close enough… waited several slow seconds, expecting him to poke his head over the roots to peer down.

  He didn’t. In the silence of whistling wind, the distant percussion of waves below, I became aware of an incongruous sound.. . a faint but rhythmic sawing noise…

  Shit.

  Fabron had discovered the rope and was cutting it with the switchblade.

  In one motion, I vaulted up onto the rock rim using the rope and roots for leverage. Got my upper body onto solid ground, while my legs dangled… and there was Fabron on his knees, sawing frantically, his left side to the tree, the flashlight nearby. He turned when he heard me and swung the knife, trying to pin my hand to the tree. When I yanked my hand away, he lunged and tried to stab me again… then grinned as I began to slide back over the edge.

  Because there was nothing else to grab, I grabbed Fabron’s long hair- he wouldn’t risk stabbing himself in the head. I yanked and kept yanking until he dropped the knife to pry my left hand free. When he did, I caught his wrist with my right hand, and augered my thumb between tendon and ulnar nerve until my fingers were anchored.

  Fabron began sliding with me over the cliff’s edge.

  The man swore… then screamed, as my weight pulled him downward. He scratched and pounded at my fist, trying to free himself. But we continued to slide. For an instant, we were face-to-face-me looking up, Fabron looking down. He had the wild black eyes of an animal unaccustomed to darkness.

  “Let go-you’re insane. You’re hurting me!”

  I said, “Like you hurt the English woman?” I had threaded my left arm through a space where a huge root was anchored to rock, but my right hand was still locked on his wrist. I continued pulling him downward.

  “What did that bitch tell you? She asked for it. She’s lying!”

  I said, “No. You asked for it. And you’re dying.”

  I released the wrist, got a handful of his hair, and gave a final yank. The man shrieked as he tumbled over me. But instead of tumbling clear, he got an arm around my neck, and we both fell… fell until the rope jolted taut, humming with the strain of our combined weight.

  The impact bounced us away from the cliff, over the water… back to the rocks… over the water… then back again… amid a shower of stones and the mac
hine-gun crackle of breaking tree roots. Each time a root ripped free, there was another jolting descent of a few inches as the tree began to fall in slow motion.

  Fabron had managed to keep his right arm locked around my neck, but he was slipping. As he slipped, he screamed, “Loop the rope around me. For God’s sake, loop the rope around my waist!”

  Then, he went silent. He felt my fingers on his right wrist, prying, squeezing, levering. His chest spasmed. He was crying, I realized, as he moaned, “Don’t… I’m begging you. We’re both going to die!”

  I told him, “Don’t we all?” and popped his hand free.

  He fell, and I watched… watched as he shrank into a funneling darkness despite his clawing attempts to fly. The last desperate words of grown men, good and bad, are often a child’s cry.

  “Mamaaaaaaaan.”

  Fabron’s scream lingered, then faded into vacuous silence that was dizzying.

  I looked away, then at the tree above. Roots were holding now. No more firecracker popping… just the open-sea sound of wind… and somewhere, the muted howling of a dog.

  HAND OVER HAND, I climbed the rope and pulled myself over the rim. I staggered farther from the ledge than necessary to be safe, then rested on one knee while my head throbbed and my pounding heart began to slow. After a minute or so, I walked to where Fabron had dumped Norma’s body.

  The carpet was there, but it had been rolled out flat. Norma was gone.

  What the hell…?

  Had Fabron dumped her off the cliff without me noticing?

  No, impossible.

  Or maybe Wolfie had come along and…

  No, Wolfie would’ve cut the rope to get rid of me before bothering with a dead woman.

  I’d hidden my radio and flashlight in a crevice near the tree. With the flashlight, I returned to the carpet. I found traces of blood, and a balled-up wad of duct tape. Several yards away, I found another wad of tape.

  I smiled. Norma was alive. Hurt… maybe badly hurt, but still strong enough to free herself and get away.

  I called her name, but not loud. I walked toward a wall of trees where chain-link fence bordered the monastery grounds. Found another strip of tape, and called, “Norma? Norma,” in a hoarse whisper.