“One day you gonna squish that cat,” said Verna. She had followed him out onto the balcony. Boo looked at her and leaped down from the back of the cushion. He rubbed himself against her legs, obviously intent on seducing her out of some cat treats.
“All right, you black panther, you,” Verna said. “You know I can’t resist that lovin’.” She walked back into the apartment, shook some catfood into a bowl, and brought it back to the balcony. Boo purred loudly as he ate.
Verna leaned against the doorway and watched Forte. He was sprawled in the huge chair, his hands folded over his stomach and his feet propped on a low table in front of him. Like a little boy who lost a ball game, she thought.
She had known about Al Forte for years, but their relationship had been cemented through their spouses. Her husband Archie had been the liaison with the city’s social workers in the Department of Housing and Neighborhood Development. He had come home talking about a young lady who had a gift for working with the inner city kids. When Al Forte had visited the precinct house during a furlough in the Navy, Archie had dropped her name. The two young people found themselves across the table at the Griffey’s before they knew what hit them.
Verna smiled to herself. That Archie. The matchmaker. When Ruth had been killed by one of her own clients, he had been devastated, as had Verna. They helplessly stood by as Al spiraled downward in his drug use, unable to stop him. Their only comfort had been in each other. They vowed to be there for Forte if he ever called for help.
Those days seem like long ago now. It still hurt her to see the young man in pain, however.
She knew all about the Lamberth case. It was one of the few times that Forte Security had failed on a mission and the only time a client had been kidnapped while under Al’s care. He did not like it a bit. None of them did. But that was the way it was and the best response was to move on to the next challenge.
“So,” she said aloud. “You just gonna mope around here the rest of your life?”
Forte kept his eyes shut but waved a hand in Verna’s direction. Boo saw the movement and jumped on his lap. “I’m thinking of taking some time off. Maybe go fishing with Larue for a few days out in the swamp.” He scratched the cat’s head, inducing even louder purring and a furious bout of kneading on Forte’s chest.
Verna whooped and Boo’s head popped up at the sudden sound. “Now that ought to be a whole big ole barrel of fun right there. You and that old man in a boat not saying a word between you for days, floating around in the God-forsaken swamp. Y’all gonna bore the alligators right outta their skins.”
Forte opened one eye and looked at her. “Sometimes a little silence can be good for a soul, Verna. You should try it.” He closed the eye and settled further in the cushion.
“I know when to keep my mouth shut,” the black woman said, “I just seldom see a situation that could not be improved by a bit of my advice. And being the giving person that I am, I am not shy about sharing my wisdom as I see fit.”
Forte laughed out loud at this last display of sassiness. Verna smiled. She had helped brighten the man’s dark mood if but for a few minutes.
“So you will be gone for how long?” she asked.
“Not sure. A few days. Probably less than a week.”
“It will be good for you, really.” She turned to continue her housework. “Just let us know when you get back.”
* * *
Jerah Schein stood on the deck of the 45-foot sailboat, his legs bent slightly as he rocked with the boat’s movement through the waves. A warm breeze flowed over him as he scanned the horizon. No land in sight and no other boats anywhere. Just sun-dappled water everywhere and a blue canopy of sky overhead. He inhaled another deep lungful of the sea air in the afternoon brightness before going down into the spacious cabin of the boat.
He was still amazed and delighted at how much room the big sailboat afforded. He remembered the cramped quarters of the little boat he and Father Buell had sailed across choppy chilly Lake Michigan. Those were fun days amidst the darkness of his childhood. But this — this was paradise. With millions in the bank, he could afford to indulge himself in his one true vice – sailing. And if he had to rationalize the purchase of the boat, he could easily say it was part of his mission.
He felt a sense of peace that had eluded him for months. He had not realized it was gone until he regained it. During his mission in New Orleans he had concentrated so intently on every step of his plan, enduring months of planning before waiting until the right moment to strike.
Now it was done. He smiled. Now he could relax for a while.
He made his way to the kitchen and took the steaks out of the freezer to thaw. He would grill them later out under the stars. Perfecto.
He turned to the side of the sink. A towel lay there on the counter, folded over itself twice.
He unwrapped the towel. It was sticky with redness.
He picked up the bloody knife. Taking a steelwool pad, he ran it under a stream of hot water from the faucet, then slowly scrubbed the crusted blood from the blade.
Chapter 32
Saturday, 7:30 a.m.
The beaches of Ambergris Caye were nearly empty at this hour, the tourists sleeping in for the most part after a busy night of partying in San Pedro Town. The island’s largest town, with it’s mile-long stretch of unpaved sandy streets, could more accurately be called a village. But its quaint rustic charm was the island’s biggest draw. Vacationers came here with the purpose of trading a bit of convenience for the chance to get away from the high-rise buildings, traffic and billboards of their fast-paced lives.
A bum rolled over on a pillow of newspapers so he could watch from beneath the torn brim of his straw hat as the waves rolled onto the beach. The breeze coming off the Caribbean made his tattered clothes flutter and threatened to turn the hat into a kite. He put a hand up to keep the hat on his head. He had found it in a dumpster behind a hotel and he didn’t want to lose it. The sea breeze had a way of disguising the heat that would bake the white sand of the island as the sun rose higher in the sky. For tourists with plenty of sunscreen and fancy beach umbrellas, the sun was another of the Belize island’s attractions. For him, it could mean sunstroke, especially without a hat.
And who would rescue a smelly creature like him as he lay boiling like a lobster on the beach?
He stretched and sat up. Sand fell from his dreadlocks and cascaded down the neck of his torn sweat-stained tee-shirt. Some of the tiny grains of irritation even made it under the waistband of his threadbare khaki pants. With the movements of a man twice his age, he rolled on his side and pushed himself up on all fours, then to one knee. He peeled off the shirt and shook as much sand out of it as he could before slapping the cloth over his chest and back to dislodge more sand. A dirty Band-Aid clung to his forearm with one edge flapping. He pressed the bandage back in place.
He donned the tee-shirt and stood up. He stretched again, his arms reaching toward the deep blue above his head. Time to look for food.
The limestone coral island of Ambergris Caye stretched along the coast of Belize and paralleled the barrier reef of that small Central American country. Ambergris was a mere 25 miles in length and the habitable part was less than that. He had walked most of it. Several times.
The people of the island were friendly for the most part, chattering in Spanish among themselves but addressing the tourists in English. They generally ignored him as he shuffled along searching garbage cans behind the buildings that lined Barrier Reef Drive, San Pedro’s main street.
The town was about a quarter mile down the beach. He picked up his shopping bag and shuffled in that direction. To his left, an older couple walked hand in hand along the water’s edge, their heads bent to discover polished shells. The bum watched them from beneath the straw hat and tilted his head a bit more to watch a sailboat glide through the water a few hundred yards from the beach. He stopped and watched the boat for a moment, then resumed his plodding through the sand
. From time to time he stopped and examined the edges of beach towels that lay half-buried in the beach, forgotten by their owners. No treasures were wrapped in the terry folds of the towels. One of them might provide him with a blanket to replace the newspapers he had been using to block the night breeze as he slept.
A golf-cart carrying a deeply tanned man of about 70 whizzed past the bum who trudged along the sand street of the town. Few people under retirement age were out and about at this hour. That was fine with him. The town police were fairly tolerant but they could get irate if he gave any appearance of pestering the tourists. This island may have been a former pirate hideout and might still claim to have a fishing industry but these days tourism was king and the powers-that-be made sure it went unimpeded.
The bum walked around to the back of a building and rummaged through a couple of cardboard boxes that had been discarded. Nothing of use here. He lifted the lid of a small blue dumpster and let the morning sun illuminate its insides. He peered in then let the lid down slowly. No loud clanging to attract the interest of the authorities.
He kept moving from building to building, trash can to dumpster, behind the stores and souvenir shops of the island town. A worker, one of the 2000 or so Spanish-Mestizo natives of the island, came out of the back door of a restaurant ahead of him. He threw a trash bag into the dumpster and glanced at the disheveled man then went inside. The bum waited for a moment, then approached the trash bin and opened the lid. The stench of rotting food hit him in the face. He persisted, however, sorting through the bundles until he pulled out the bag the man had just discarded. Ahhh, breakfast. He pulled out two Styrofoam containers with aluminum foil bundles inside. He unwrapped the foil to reveal large slabs of grilled swordfish that had been left over from the previous night’s dinner crowd. He smelled the fish then carried it over to the edge of the building. He sat and leaned against the wooden wall of the restaurant and broke off a piece of the fish with his fingers. He popped it into his mouth. Heaven.
He forced himself to chew slowly as he ate, having learned his lesson about putting too much food on an empty stomach. Sometimes a whole day would pass before he found a morsel like this one, but the rich sauces on some of the leftovers could make his insides rebel. He finished the fish and let his head rest against the building, his straw hat across his lap. He could easily fall asleep here but it was best to keep moving. If he stayed in the alley and dozed, eventually a policeman’s night stick would prod him out of his reverie. It was best not to loiter here.
He slowly got to his feet and shuffled along behind the buildings. He poked into boxes and trash bins as he strolled, taking his time as he went but casually glancing around him to make sure he drew no undue attention. He knew he had little to worry about on that account. Few people noticed a homeless man because they wanted to avoid the guilt of seeing someone like him. Eventually most people were able to look right through a street person, as if he were invisible.
Gradually he made his way toward the Island Yacht Club Resort with its stark white stucco buildings topped by Spanish red-tile roofs. The sun had not yet risen too high in the sky. Any later, however, and the staff at the club would be out inspecting the grounds, quickly shooing him away before their guests saw him. He shuffled past the cabanas close to the beach. The smell here was much more pleasant than the odors of the dumpsters on the main street of San Pedro. He could hear Calypso music piped out of speakers near the pool next to the clubhouse about a hundred yards from the beach
He stopped and checked a couple of garbage cans along the walkway. They had been emptied by some conscientious worker already this morning. Ahead he could see the masts of sailboats at the marina.
The berths of the marina were only half full. Five boats of various sizes floated there. One of the boats, a 44-foot Morgan, had not been there when he visited the marina the day before. Maybe there was something of interest there. He paused at the covered pavilion that marked the entrance of the marina and looked around for any of the club employees. No one was stirring.
He walked down the pier slowly, his shopping bag dangling from his fingers. Stopping to poke in the two trash receptacles along the way to the new boat, he let his gaze travel along the wood planks back to the clubhouse. Still no one about.
He stood across from the big sailboat. It was a beauty. He did not look at it directly as he poked through the contents of his bag.
A woman came out on the deck. The homeless man did not seem to notice her. He half-stood and picked up the bag to walk back down the pier.
She was an attractive woman, slim with very short black hair. She stretched and looked out across the water through her sunshades. She glanced at the bum on the pier before turning to go back below.
As she turned, the wind caught the edge of her wrap and blew it briefly aside. She was wearing a black bikini. High on her hip was a mark. It was there then gone. The wrap she was wearing fluttered back to cover her hips.
The bum kept shuffling to the end of the pier.
It had been just a flash. But he had seen it.
The tattoo on the woman’s hip.
A tiny red, yellow, and blue butterfly.
Chapter 33
Saturday, 11:30 a.m.
The red-haired man picked up the Frisbee and walked out onto the island beach. “C’mon, you can do better than that,” he called out to the girl. He flicked his wrist and the fluorescent yellow plastic disc floated over to her. She made a half-hearted attempt to catch it but missed. The disc hit the sand, bounced and rolled away on the packed beach all the way to the water’s edge.
Jerah Schein rubbed his hand over his newly red hair and watched Hallee walk over to pick up the Frisbee. Her face was as morose as if she had been sentenced to a prison instead of playing on the white sands of a sun-drenched Caribbean isle.
He didn’t blame her. Her life had been turned upside down. It would take awhile for her to adjust.
In fact, it would take them all awhile to adjust.
He had been elated during the sail across the Gulf of Mexico into the Caribbean as he steered the new sailboat back toward his beloved island. He should have expected the island to have lost some of its charm in the 15 or so years since he had seen it. But he was still shocked by the number of resorts that occupied the island now. Maybe this would not be the place he would come to rest after all. Other small islands surrounded Ambergris, undeveloped places he could mold into the perfect hideaway. The less crowded the better.
But this was a good place to rest for a while. So much had happened. He needed the break. He had plenty of time for that now.
He had expected Hallee to adopt a little more cheery attitude when she was reunited with her mother. He was mildly surprised that the girl’s sadness had deepened. The tears had flowed from the girl and when they stopped, they were replaced with a questioning look that Hallee would not express in front of Schein. He had expected the child to bolt; somehow her mother had kept her in line.
He hoped that time would heal her pain.
More worrisome to him at this point was the change he had seen in Freida Lamberth.
She had been affectionate to the point of startling him when he first picked her up at the other sailboat where she had staged her disappearance. He remembered the flush of success on her face as she talked of her plan working out perfectly. Her plan. He had let that one pass.
The kidnapping of Hallee had been the widow’s idea, he granted that. But the fake suicide/murder – whatever the police deemed it – of Freida Lamberth on the boat, that had been Schein’s scheme. “Why live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder? Make them think you’re dead,” he had said.
During the boat ride to the island, Freida had grown more distant. He knew it was stressful for her to deal with Hallee as the girl was trying to make sense of all that had happened. Now that they were docked at the marina and safe, he hoped she would regain her spirit.
He watched Hallee walk over to the beach blanket he had s
pread on the white sand. She flopped down on her stomach and stared out over the water.
Much had changed since he had embarked on his mission to New Orleans. Originally, all he had planned was the justified execution of the abortion butcher Tyson Lamberth. Gradually, the mission had expanded in ways he never would have imagined. It started, ironically, with Dr. Lamberth asking him to do some work around his house. He had felt paranoid about the request, wondering if somehow the doctor knew of his plot.
Then came the real surprise. Freida Lamberth had revealed that she had been his benefactor, the one he had met on the Internet who first put the idea in his head to assassinate an abortion doctor. At first, he had been furious, to have been manipulated like that. But he had calmed down when he heard of her years of abuse at the hands of the doctor. The forced abortions, the affairs her husband had flaunted, the virtual prison her home had become for her. The man had actually murdered her unborn children.
And the biggest shocker: Tyson had never wanted Freida to give birth to Hallee but she had threatened to divorce him. He relented.
The doctor had wanted to kill his own daughter. That realization had made the rest of Freida’s plan easier to digest.
Schein picked up the Frisbee and waded out into the surf. The water was cool for a second but he quickly adjusted to it. Above his head seagulls floated in the warm breeze. He took a deep breath of the clean salt air and let it out slowly.
All in all, everything had worked out better than expected. Of course, the bodyguard Forte had caused a little more excitement than he had bargained for but that too was past. He considered the man a worthy adversary who had come up short.
The future was ahead. Sometime the next day, the $25 million in ransom money would be transferred into two other accounts: one in the name of his third identity that had been established for him by the junkie papermaker months ago, and one in the fake identity that Freida had assumed. After that, the pair would shop for property to build the perfect hideaway.
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