Evil Returns

by Cave, Hugh

  "Thank you."

  When she awoke, she was not in the car any more. The moon had disappeared, and the fat lady was carrying her along a path. The night smelled like the seashore. There was a sound of small waves breaking. Then a light came on ahead—a lantern, not an electric light—and she saw a boat in front of her. On its deck next to the lantern stood Mr. Polivien.

  He reached down, and the fat lady handed Merry up to him, and there was some talk in Creole that Merry did not understand. Then Mr. Polivien reached down again to help Clarisse onto the boat.

  Merry was not sleepy any more. She had never been on a boat before and was curious. This one had a kind of a house in the middle. In front of that was a big pole with ropes hanging from it. Everything looked old and dirty, though.

  "Come, little one." Taking her by the hand, the fat lady led her into the boat's house, where another lantern provided light, and walked her across a dirty floor to a kind of bed. She was supposed to use the bed, she guessed, so she sat on it. There were two others like it. Margal sat on one, and Clarisse, with a sigh of weariness, went and sank onto the other.

  "Are you all right, little one?" Margal said.

  "Oh, yes."

  "Then you should try to sleep again. Before daylight, people at Polivien's house will be coming aboard. I have warned him to keep them quiet, but he won't be able to."

  "Yes, go to sleep," Clarisse urged. "And may le bon Dieu protect you, ti-fi!"

  "Who?"

  "The one you call God."

  Margal turned quickly to look at her and said something angrily in Creole that Merry did not understand. After staring back at him for a few seconds, the fat lady shrugged. Then she lay down with her back to both of them and did not speak again.

  Chapter Six

  Rising at seven, Sandra Dawson donned a robe over her pajamas and went downstairs to the kitchen. On mornings when they needed fresh fruit and vegetables from the Iron Market, she always prepared breakfast herself, so that the cook, Edita, could stop at the market on her way to work.

  After setting the table for two, she went to unlock the back door and found its bolts already drawn. Had she neglected to lock the door last night? What about the front door and the living room shutters?

  She went to look, and found that part of the house properly secured. Strange.

  The situation was ironic, too. With Brian away she felt so much less tense but had to face the fact that she and Merry were alone in a big house, in a city where a door left unlocked at night could be an invitation to terror.

  She must be more careful tonight.

  At the bottom of the stairs she called Merry's name. No answer. Ah, to be six and able to sleep so soundly! Again she called. Again no reply.

  "If you're just looking for a morning giggle session, young lady, I'll paddle your tush for making me climb these stairs!"

  Up she went, half amused. At the top she paced along the hall with her hands on her hips, past her own open door to the one at the end.

  Merry liked to burrow under the sheet and pretend she wasn't there, and then giggle when "discovered." There was no bulge under the sheet this morning.

  A new game? The child did have a lively imagination. And a wicked sense of humor.

  "All right, I'll find you. They don't call me Sherlock Sandy for nothing, young lady."

  Dropping to one knee, she peered under the bed. No one there. With a dramatic lunge at the closet, she swept apart the clothes hanging there. No one was hiding behind them to grab her around the legs with a game-ending squeal of delight.

  Puzzled now, she turned to the bed again and saw the white pajamas lying on it.

  "Merry, where are you? Stop this, now!"

  The silence was frightening.

  "Merry! I'm not in the mood this morning. Where are you?"

  Not here in the room, obviously. The child must be somewhere else in the house. But naked? Or had she put on some clothes after shedding the pajamas?

  This was a big house. Much larger than the one in Canapé Vert that they had occupied while waiting for something Brian felt was more appropriate to his position at the Embassy. She went along the upstairs hall to a bedroom Merry used as a playroom.

  The child's red tricycle was neatly parked in a corner. Dolls of assorted sizes sat on the bed where she played at teaching school.

  "Merry, are you hiding in here?"

  No answer. A quick search proved Merry was not.

  Sandra sped down the stairs, shouting the child's name. It could no longer be a game her daughter was playing. The games never lasted this long!

  Downstairs was just as empty. Then she remembered the unlocked back door.

  Could her daughter have unlocked it? Was she tall enough now to reach the chain that controlled the top bolt? I secured that door when I went to bed last night. I know I did! Even thinking about Ken, I wouldn't have neglected to do that, with two break-ins on this street in the past week.

  The door clattered against the wall as she jerked it open. Shouting Merry's name, she ran into the yard. The part of it where the child always played was empty. Still calling, she sped around to the front, where the swimming pool was. Merry never had come here alone after being told she mustn't, but if she were caught up in some frenzy of independence this morning . . .

  The front was deserted, too. Her shouts went unanswered. There was no one in the pool. Numb with fear, she ran around to the back again.

  Was it possible the child could have opened the gate and left the yard for some reason? To chase a ball, say? Or talk to some passerby who might have called out to her? The marchandes did that sometimes.

  Sandra hurried to the gate and opened it. This was the time of day when servants were on their way to work. Seeing her there in her dressing gown and slippers, two such women peered at her in passing. One offered a hesitant, "Bon jour, Madame."

  She did not answer. There was no sign of her daughter. Dear God, what should she do?

  Don't panic. She's a sensible child, not one to do something really foolish. She isn't in the house and she isn't in the yard, so for some reason that seemed to make sense to her, she must have gone somewhere.

  Remember the time in Canapé Vert when she found the Dantaves' kitten in our yard and walked half a mile to take it back to them?

  Get dressed now. Get organized. Then go look for her!

  It was all very well to preach calmness to herself, but she was back at the gate, dressed, in less than three minutes, and again faced the need to make a decision. If she left the house and the child returned while she was gone—what then? It would be Merry's turn to panic.

  I can't help it. I can't just stay here and wait! And if she returns and is frightened, it may teach her not to do this again.

  Leaving the gate open behind her, she looked up the street, then down. Which way? Dear God, there were so many decisions to make! She turned left, down the hill.

  For half an hour she knocked on locked gates, causing watchdogs to howl and bark, or opened unlocked gates and rang doorbells. And asked people she did not even know if they had seen her daughter.

  No one had.

  Call the police, she told herself. The child could be far from here by now. Perhaps someone coaxed her into a car.

  Into her mind came memories of lurid tales she had read about this land of superstition and black magic. Tales of secret voodoo rites in which children were said to be used.

  She ran most of the way home. Bursting into the house, she frantically called Merry's name again until convinced the child had not returned. Then she forced her hands to stop shaking while she pawed through the telephone directory.

  Police Department? It wasn't listed. But they didn't call it that here, did they? Dear God, what did they call it? Her mind would not function. Department of Police? No. Ministry? No, no. Bureau—that was it. Bureau de la Police. She found the number and dialed it. The answer came in French, of course.

  She could speak a little French. Even a little Creole
. Not enough for this. Did someone there speak English? Please? This was an emergency!

  "I speak English, Madame. What is the problem?"

  He listened without interrupting, and then questioned her. She got the impression it was not to him an earth-shaking problem, but for the sake of good public relations he would be cooperative. "Your husband is at the United States Embassy, is he not, Mrs. Dawson?"

  "Yes, yes. But not now. He's in Miami."

  "I see. Well, please be assured we shall do our best. And, of course, if the child returns, you will call us?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Dawson. No harm will come to your daughter. We will soon find her."

  His mention of the Embassy had put a thought in her head. One she should have had before, she told herself. The only homes Merry was likely to think of visiting were those of Brian's colleagues. She had been taken to most of them at one time or another. Some were in this area.

  If the child knew how to reach them on foot . . .

  One after another she phoned them and talked to Embassy wives. No, they had not seen Merry but would alert their servants. She mustn't worry.

  "That daughter of yours is a bit of a pixie, you know, Sandy."

  "She'll be back when she's had her little fling, dear."

  "The police are really efficient here, Sandra. They'll find her."

  "I'll send Luc"—her yard boy—"out on his motorbike to search the neighborhood. He knows her, and he's very intelligent."

  Should she call Brian in Miami? No, no—at least, not yet. He would be furious. He would say she should have been more careful. And the Embassy women were right, of course. Merry hadn't been kidnapped. She had just wandered off somewhere.

  If only she could believe that!

  At this point Edita arrived from the market and, on being told what had happened, went out again at once, wide-eyed, to make inquiries of her own.

  Chapter Seven

  The Greenway was not one of the Miami area's better-known hotels. A few blocks south of Flagler in Coral Gables, it catered to visitors who appreciated quiet more than chrome. Its lobby was small, its roof only six floors above the street.

  Brian Dawson took a taxi from the airport to a foreign-car establishment run by a college buddy. From machines available in its used-car section he leased one suited to his temperament.

  It was a silver Jaguar with a hood ornament depicting a cat of that species leaping into space. The car itself resembled a sleek feline ready to pounce. Arriving at the Greenway in it, Brian nevertheless carried his suitcase himself rather than wait for assistance.

  He offered his hand to the middle-aged manager at the desk. "How are you, Norman. You got my telegram?"

  "We did indeed, Mr. Dawson. Would you like your usual room?"

  "Fine."

  Norman tapped a bell. A man about his own age but wearing a dark brown uniform came to carry Brian's bag. He, too, greeted Brian by name. On the way up to the fourth floor he said, "Will you be with us long this time, sir?"

  "I wish I knew, Henry."

  "I took the liberty of putting some bourbon in your room. Doubted you'd be carrying anything so breakable, the way they handle one's luggage these days."

  "Bless you."

  Unlocking the door of 402, Henry stood aside to let Brian enter, then followed and placed the bag on a luggage stand. Brian tipped him, watched him depart, then opened the bottle on the writing desk and poured two inches into a glass. Having downed this with an "Ah!" of appreciation, he poured a second two inches and reached for the phone.

  When given an outside line, he dialed a number he did not have to look up. He was more than familiar, too, with the sultry voice that answered.

  "Hello, love," he said. "Have you been sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring?" He had, of course, called her from the Embassy in Port-au-Prince to say he was coming.

  "Where are you?"

  "At the hotel."

  "And didn't call me from the airport? Shame on you."

  "Career before pleasure, darling. You know that." His mock-solemn tone implied she knew precisely the opposite. "Look, I ought to shower before coming over, but, damn it, I don't want to take the time. I'll have one there while we talk."

  "I'll have the water running," she said. "I might even be under it, waiting."

  "I'm on my way."

  Downstairs he stopped at the desk for a necessary word with the manager. "As usual, I don't expect to be spending much time here, Norman. But you needn't tell that to anyone who might call. Just give them this number."

  But when he produced a card from his billfold, Norman stopped him. "We have it on file, Mr. Dawson."

  "Now that's what I call efficiency."

  "Unless you have a different one this time."

  "No. It's still the same."

  "And if you'll just let us know when you are using your room, there'll be no problem."

  "Of course."

  Strange, the man at the desk thought, watching his handsome guest stride out to the Jaguar at the curb. He comes here with a suitcase, then goes to stay somewhere else without taking it with him. Wherever he disappears to for days at a time, he must keep a supply of clothes there.

  Brian drove to Le Jeune Road and south on that main artery to Poinciana Avenue. Heading east there, he arrived after other familiar turns at a Coconut Grove apartment building as unpretentious as the hotel he had left. Here again he was able to park without difficulty.

  In the building's small foyer he pressed a button and waited to be asked who was calling.

  He wasn't asked. The door release buzzed. Letting himself in, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, where the door of apartment 203 opened as he reached it.

  He had known, of course, that she would not be waiting for him naked in the shower. She lived alone, and someone had to push the button to release the downstairs door. She was almost ready for the shower, though, he saw with a sudden surge of excitement as he pulled her into his arms and hungrily sought her mouth. All she had on was a dressing gown.

  While kissing her, he kicked the door shut. His hands were never still as they renewed their acquaintance with her body.

  This was the woman he should have married, not Sandra. He knew it now. He so easily could have done so, too, for she had slept with him when they were both students. It was only because of her name that he had chosen Sandra instead. A name like Carmen Alvaranga had seemed so synonymous with promiscuity.

  With his mouth still on hers, he succeeded at last in removing the dressing gown, and God, what a gorgeous creature she was! That raven hair, that creamy skin, that seductive body, and that sensual mouth with its hungry tongue. But then she managed to escape from his arms, shaking her head at him despite her provocative smile.

  "Let's shower," she said. "With me like this and you still dressed, we're going to get nowhere."

  That was another thing. She had that way of making him feel she fiercely wanted him. Sandra, for God's sake, always made him feel she didn't.

  "Should we have a drink first?" There were times when he had trouble coping without one.

  "Well—"

  "Just one?"

  With a little frown she went into the kitchen.

  In the bedroom. Brian removed his clothes. From the chest of drawers that held his things he tossed clean underwear and socks onto a chair. Shirts and slacks of his, even suits, hung at the back of the bedroom closet, and he had shoes on the closet floor.

  His wife would be slightly shocked, he thought with satisfaction.

  Stripped, he returned to the living room and found two drinks on a small table there. Bourbon for him, vodka for Carmen. She stood nude by the table, facing him.

  Downing his drink quickly, he reached for her. But she stepped back.

  "After we shower."

  Reluctantly, he let his hands drop. "For God's sake, let's get at it, then. It's been three months!"

  "Closer to four this time. And I
should know better than you. I've been alone."

  "Damn it, Carmen, I don't get anything from Sandy. You know that."

  "Don't you?" she said. "Really?"

  He looked at her and was suddenly angry. So often now it came to this. He would arrive full of his need for her, and somehow they would blunder into a stupid argument before anything good happened. As though he were being punished for having married the wrong woman.

  "Please," he begged. "Drink your drink."

  Slowly she did. Slowly to taunt him, he was certain. And if he said anything, she would remind him that it was he who had wanted the drink, not she. But at last her glass was empty, and when he reached for her hand to walk her to the bathroom, she did not resist.

  In the shower they soaped each other exploringly, and when the soap was rinsed off he kissed her all over, kneeling for the part of the ritual he enjoyed most. It never failed to arouse her too, and from bathroom to bed was only a matter of minutes.

  Half an hour later, when they were still naked on the bed but no longer playing with each other's bodies, she said with a frown, "How long are you here for this time?"

  "Two weeks. Maybe three."

  "Really? How did you manage to get away?" With his hands clasped behind his head he grinned at the ceiling. "Immigration asked the Embassy to send someone over to talk about the Haitian boat people. I got myself the job."

  "For two or three weeks?"

  "It won't take more than a few days. But I can say it took longer."

  "What about your wife?"

  "I told her not to expect me back until she saw me. She won't be trying to get in touch."

  "M’m." She pressed her lips to his. "Sounds good."

  "If you can get away, we might drive up to North Carolina for a while, out of this heat. Can you?" He knew she could. She owned and ran an art gallery in the Grove, and the young fellow who was her assistant could easily take over.

  "You know"—she reached out to use her fingertips on him in a provocative caress—"sometimes I really am fond of you. North Carolina sounds like heaven."

  "Do that again."