“Why did you come home?”
Her smile became pained. “My mother died, and my father was getting out of hand. We all felt someone should look after him, and the task fell to me. I was not married, my sister was. We women, you know, usually end up the caretakers.”
“But you didn’t remain with your father.”
“I couldn’t; he made my life intolerable. He drinks, he smokes, he gambles. There is always a card game going on on his veranda. I’m a religious woman, but living in that situation taxed my faith. When I began to hate my own father, I knew it was time to leave. Besides,” she added, her smile brittle now, “he didn’t really want or need me.”
I knew that feeling of offering and being dismissed. The previous Christmas I’d been concerned about Pa and his friend Nancy spending the holiday in our old house, with its trapped memories. Since none of my other siblings was offering, I called Pa and invited them to visit, much as I would have preferred spending the day with Hy and close friends. Pa’s response had been abrupt and to the point: “Why would we want to do that? We’re off to Reno on the twenty-third.”
He didn’t even thank me for the invitation, and it hadn’t improved our relationship when I responded with sarcasm: “You’re welcome, Pa.”
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I said to Regina Altagracia.
She shrugged, quickly covering her feelings. “In a way it was a relief. I had saved my money in the States, and I knew there was a strong Adventist community here. I bought this farm, joined in, found a life. We’re a very close community—closed, I realize now, since I didn’t even hear about Daddy…my father selling Jumbie Cay. Who bought it, and why was he forced to sell?”
“The purchaser is a man called Klaus Schechtmann.”
“Who is he?”
“A racketeer who ran a very lucrative phone-in sports book in San Francisco. He was indicted by the grand jury and left the country. Now he’s running the same kind of operation from a compound on Goat Point.”
She closed her eyes, shook her head from side to side.
“Apparently your father was heavily in debt to Schechtmann. He took the island in lieu of payment.”
“The old fool.”
“I’m afraid the story only gets worse. Schechtmann is harboring an Azadi citizen named Dawud Hamid, who raped and murdered a woman in California. He was never charged because he had diplomatic immunity. Two days ago Schechtmann removed Hamid’s wife and child from the Azadi Consulate in San Francisco; the wife either died accidentally or was murdered, and Schechtmann fled the scene with the little girl. By now he’s brought her to Jumbie Cay, and I’m here to get her back.”
Regina Altagracia’s fingers had tightened on the arms of her chair. “Is my father involved in this?”
“I honestly can’t say, although I doubt it. More likely he’s as much a victim of Schechtmann and Hamid as the little girl.”
“It’s difficult to imagine him as a victim. How do you plan to get the child back?”
“A seaplane is dropping me off near the island tonight. I’ll swim ashore. I have a contact there, a man called Nel Simpson, who’ll help me and bring us back here in his boat.”
“I know of Simpson. How did you come across him?”
“Through a friend of your father named Zeff Lash—”
“No! Do not trust that man!”
“Why not?”
“Did he say he was a friend of my father?”
“Yes.”
“He is not. My father had him thrown off the island while I was still living there, for cheating at cards. Lash promised he’d get even with him.”
But Lash had told me he visited often with Zebediah Altagracia, and demonstrated knowledge of Jumbie Cay since the time Schechtmann took possession. If he hadn’t gone there to see the old man, then who? Nel Simpson? Or…?
An uneasy feeling made me ask, “Ms. Altagracia, do you know of a man named Cam Connors who operates an air-charter service out of Princess Juliana?”
“Connors, Connors…Of course! He’s a friend of Zeff Lash, and also a gambler. I met him on Jumbie Cay a number of times—in addition to coming to play cards, he also flew in supplies. It seems to me I heard something about him recently. What?”
I was silent as she thought, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.
“Cam Connors…yes. He’s heavily in debt to illegal gambling interests, and in danger of losing his charter service.”
So Cam—who had claimed he’d never visited Jumbie Cay—used to play cards there. And now he was in over his head in gambling debts. Even if Schechtmann were not one of his creditors, those who collect such debts often have cooperative arrangements. Doing Schechtmann a favor would not hurt Connors. Doing him a disfavor would be sure to bring the vultures swooping down on his business. Connors was setting me up.
Now I recalled things—little things, but significant all the same: the exchanges in French between Connors and Lash, the guarded looks. Lash’s attempt to scare me off, my all-night argument with Cam. His latter insistence on accompanying me to the island and, when I said no, his refusal to provide me with a gun to take along. He hated guns, he’d told me, didn’t own any and wouldn’t arm anyone under any circumstances.
At the time I’d accepted what he said as truth because of my own reservations about firearms, but now I revised my opinion. Hy had told me that Dan Kessell’s pilots always went armed—too much danger of cargo or planes being hijacked otherwise. Here in the Caribbean, where drug trafficking and political instability were rampant, Connors would be a fool not to follow the same practice. Habits born of living dangerously don’t die; Hy was the world’s most cautious person where firearms were concerned, but I doubted the day would come when he didn’t sleep with his .44 within reach. Connors would do the same.
Cam may once have been Hy’s buddy, but the friendship was forged many years ago in different times. People change, and often we forget that they don’t necessarily change for the better. If Hy had a dangerous flaw, it was believing in the continuing good intentions of those he had cared about.
He should have been more cautious where Connors was concerned.
I should have been more cautious.
My fists were clenched, and my fingernails dug into my palms. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood.
Regina Altagracia frowned. “Are you all right?”
What would Connors do? Force me out of his plane over the open sea? Probably not; I’d put up a struggle, and he wouldn’t want to risk the aircraft or his life. He might land at some location other than Jumbie Cay and drown me. Tourists drowned all the time; my death probably wouldn’t trigger a serious investigation.
Still, Cam didn’t strike me as the sort of man who would kill with impunity; certainly he’d tried every way possible to talk me out of making the trip to Jumbie Cay. For all he knew, I’d called Hy and told him our plans. We’d been seen together both at his friend Ben’s restaurant and Eudoxie’s last night; we’d be seen together at his charter service tonight. No, rather than kill me, Cam would let matters take their natural course. He’d drop me at Marlin Landing as promised.
And then? Easy. Nel Simpson would deliver me into the hands of Schechtmann and his people, and I’d end up in an unmarked grave on Jumbie Cay.
The images of what might happen before they killed me swarmed before my eyes like insects.
Through them I saw Regina Altagracia watching me. Awkwardly she got up from the chair and came over, put her hand on the back of my head and forced it forward. “Breathe shallowly,” she said. “You’re about to hyperventilate.”
“I have to think—” The swarm became small black dots. Jesus, this hadn’t happened to me in years! I thought I’d gotten over it—
Next thing I knew my knees were pressing against my temples. A hand restrained me from raising my head.
“It’s all right,” Regina Altagracia’s voice said. “Relax and keep breathing shallowly.”
“I’m so embarrassed,” I
said to the grass-cloth mat on the floor.
“You’ve had a shock. It happens.”
I relaxed and breathed.
After a moment she took her hand away and I sat up. “Thanks,” I said.
She leaned down, tilted my face toward hers, and studied me with coolly assessing eyes. Then she nodded and smiled grimly. “I will help you,” she said.
I couldn’t imagine how.
Her smile broadened, became wicked—and dangerous.
She said, “You probably see me as a good church lady. On the upper fringe of middle age, dowdy and overweight, with an undistinguished past and a future that is a gentle slide toward death.”
I shook my head, confused as to where this was taking us.
“I am most of those things,” she went on, “and something else entirely. And I will tell you this: anyone who tries to— pardon me—fuck with my island, my father, a helpless little girl, or a good person such as yourself…Well, anyone who tries that is in for one hell of a fight.”
Seventeen
Regina told me to go outside and pay off Kenny. She didn’t know the driver and didn’t trust anyone unfamiliar to her and her associates—whoever they might be. “Here,” she said as I started toward the door, “give him some of these. He’ll clear out in a hurry.”
I looked at the pamphlets she thrust into my hand. Seventh-day Adventist literature. When I came back I was smiling; Kenny had fended off the pamphlets as if they were capable of transmitting an infectious disease.
Regina smiled knowingly. “It hurts me that so many people are unwilling to see the light, but on the other hand, their horror of the Lord’s word can be useful. Now, come with me.”
She took me through the latticed walkway to the shuttered building at the side of the house. Its door was secured by a padlock and chain. She keyed the lock, unwound the chain, and entered ahead of me. The interior was totally black; I waited.
An oil lamp came on, its beam weak at first, then stronger. I stepped through the door and saw a large room that had once been a barn. It was spotlessly clean and the stalls were partitioned off with bedsheets; in one I glimpsed a neatly made cot. At the far end of the room was a cooking and eating area; at the other stood a grouping of shabby mismatched chairs. A toy box with a teddy bear perched atop it and a bookcase crammed with paperbacks sat beneath one of the shuttered windows.
“What…?” I asked.
Regina switched on a ceiling fan against the trapped heat, lowered herself slowly into a chair, and motioned for me to sit, too. “I will tell you a story,” she said. “When I first moved to this peaceful valley I began attending services at the little stone church two miles down the road. For a while I made no friends; I was out of practice. Then one day in the supermarket I ran into a woman who had sat next to me during the previous week’s services. I was carrying a political history of the area; she commented on it and after some conversation during which we discovered we shared the same views on a number of issues, she suggested I might be interested in joining a study group at the church.
“Well, I told her I already knew my Bible backwards and forwards. She said the group wasn’t a bible-study class; instead they discussed political situations in the Caribbean and South and Central America. That interested me, so I attended and got caught up in it. Every Thursday evening we had spirited arguments about the oppression and change sweeping our corner of the world.
“After six months the same woman called on me and asked me to join the group’s inner circle. It seems the sessions I attended were a proving ground, their way of checking out the strength of my beliefs and commitment. The inner circle did more than talk; they assisted people in the troubled areas.”
“How?”
“You have of course heard of your country’s Underground Railroad?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this building is one of the way stations on ours.”
“You actually help them escape the trouble spots?”
She shook her head. “We’re not equipped to do that. To tell you the truth, most of us are too old and fat for that sort of action. But we raise money for loans, we provide them shelter, we refer them to other associates in other places. We give them moral and spiritual support. The word is out that people in need have friends on this island.”
“This is a remarkable coincidence,” I said. “The man I’m involved with does similar work; right now he’s helping a political dissident escape from Haiti.” I told her Hy’s name and the organization in Miami that had contacted him.
Regina didn’t look surprised in the least. “I don’t know of your friend, but I do know the group he’s working for. And this is no coincidence.”
“Oh?”
“As I said before, I’m a good church lady. I believe in divine guidance.” My skepticism must have shown on my face because she asked, “What faith are you?”
“I was raised Catholic. Now I’m…nothing.”
“Don’t look so alarmed; I’m not about to begin proselytizing. But I very much doubt you’re ‘nothing.’”
“No?”
“If you were, you wouldn’t be here to save the little girl. You believe. You just don’t put a name to it.”
“…Maybe.”
“No maybe about it. Now, when are you flying to Jumbie Cay?”
“Around ten tonight.” I explained my reasoning about what Connors planned to do.
“I think you’re quite correct,” she said, “so we must insure that you’re adequately protected. You see that toy box over there? Open it.”
I went over, removed the teddy bear, and lifted the box’s lid. Inside was a jumble of more stuffed animals. I frowned at Regina.
She tossed me a small key. “Take them out and use this to release the panel beneath them.”
I scooped out the playthings and tossed them on the floor, then unlocked and removed the panel. It concealed an impressive cache of handguns.
“Before you leave here,” Regina said, “we will see that you’re equipped with the proper weapon in a waterproof, concealed package. But let’s concern ourselves with that later. At the moment we have work to do.”
* * *
Regina dropped me off in Marigot at quarter after five. In my head I had a list of facts and instructions. Taped to the small of my back and braced by the belt of my loose trousers was a waterproof package containing my money, I.D., and other essentials, a lightweight Glock nine-millimeter pistol and a final necessary item. My yellow shirt billowed out, concealing the extra bulk. Regina clasped my hands and wished me Godspeed, reminded me to contact her at her unlisted phone number should I need help when I returned with Habiba.
That she said “when,” rather than “if,” bolstered my courage.
Connors wouldn’t get back from his charter for more than an hour. I turned down a side street, found a small sidewalk café, and ordered coffee. As I sipped it I reviewed my plans. A few more details had to be taken care of; I’d find a pay phone before going back to the apartment.
Even though I was a good actor, it wouldn’t be easy to fake the rapport I’d previously shared with Connors. I was sure I could pull it off, though, and any slips I might make he’d chalk up to nervousness about tonight’s excursion. I wouldn’t have to fake that.
The plan was solid; Regina and I had gone over and over it—each adding bits and pieces from her own area of expertise, improving on it as we went. Details were crucially important, and I had them down pat. One would lead to another with smooth precision.
As I reviewed them I realized that my nervousness was fading. I felt in control, and somewhat high. Hell, any minute now I’d be starting to enjoy this!
Was this the way the Diplo-bomber felt as he homed in on one of his targets? Yes, I thought so. The powerful rush might not be the motive for the bombings, but it had to be a satisfying by-product. And the more he toyed with the authorities, the more he walked on the thin edge of danger, the greater the rush would be.
I was begin
ning to understand him in a way that reading a dry psychological profile couldn’t duplicate. If I could get farther inside his mentality, until I was almost in sync with it, I might be able to figure out what he wanted as his ultimate payoff. There had to be one; he’d been escalating his activities, changing his patterns, revealing more of himself. He’d demand that payoff soon. And if, when he did—
Whoa, McCone! Take things one step at a time. The program for tonight is to get Habiba off that island.
I finished my coffee. There was a pay phone on the corner; I left money on the table and walked down there.
Early afternoon in California. Greg Marcus was out of the office. Still no machine and no answer at Joslyn’s. Renshaw wasn’t at Green Street, but the operator patched me through to the consulate.
“Goddamn time you called back!” he exclaimed. “What’s going on?”
“I’m about to snatch Habiba and bring her home.” I believed it now; it would happen. “What’s going on there?”
“Nothing. No ransom demand, and Hamid’s going about business as usual.”
“Jesus, Gage, Mavis is dead and Habiba’s down here. How can she remain calm? She knows what her son is—”
“What her son is?”
Bad slip; I couldn’t go into it now. “Well,” I said lamely, “he hasn’t been the best of fathers. Have you heard from Ripinsky?”
Hesitation. “Yes. He got his party out and sent him on to Panama, where he’s been granted asylum.”
“Where’s Hy now?”
“Santo Domingo. There were…complications.”
“Complications? Gage—what?”
“He’s sick, that’s all. That damned bug he picked up in Managua. But he’s seen a doctor and gotten some medication for it. Don’t worry.”
How could I not worry? “Do you have a contact number for him?”
He read it off to me. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”
“Isn’t any. And listen, Gage, if Hy calls in, will you tell him not to contact Cam Connors under any circumstances?”
A Wild and Lonely Place Page 18
