by Camilla Monk
If what you listen to says something about who you are, then March’s musical tastes confirmed my earlier impression that, even if he wasn’t a psycho killer, he was a terrible human being. Old country? Really? We were in New England, somewhere near a place called Barnstable, and a cold drizzle covered the windshield while Bobby Bare’s drawl filled the car, asking Jesus to drop-kick him through the goal posts of life. Oh well, at least March had been kind enough to free me from the handcuffs, thanks to some sort of universal key—I had no idea they even made these.
As we drove through miles and miles of pine woods, though, I did start to mentally fill a scorching review of March’s chauffeur service. I had no choice but to give him a one-star rating, because this simply wasn’t how you drive when you carry guns and rifles in your car. As a teen, I had been used to my father’s boorish driving and constant challenging of speed limits. March was nothing like him: his driving was smooth, slow, mindful of other drivers and cute animals crossing, and, to sum it up, completely lame. I mean, stopping on the side of the road to text? Who does that anymore? I refrained from huffing every time we paused in front of a red light waiting for no one to cross, rubbing my feet against the floor mat in impatience.
I caught him glancing at my muddy shoes and rolled my eyes. So what if I got a little mud on his carpet? No big deal.
Okay, maybe big deal.
“I’m sorry for being a little tense, Island. I suppose I’m not used to having guests in the front seat. My clients usually ride in the trunk, you know.”
Wow. He was the first person I’d met who could turn the gentlest apology into an ominous threat. Squirming uncomfortably, I peeked at his profile while he drove. Could you read noses like you read the lines of a hand? Were men with nice aquiline noses more prone to pursuing criminal careers than others? If so, where did Hitler’s and Al Capone’s bulbous appendages fit into my newly established table of criminal noses? I spent several minutes lost in my classification efforts, until my thoughts drifted to my mother’s own “criminal career.”
“March, that diamond . . . how big is it? Is it really worth two billion?”
The usual poker smile swiftly fell in place, and I was beginning to understand that the man smiled whenever he needed to conceal his hand. For all his skills, March was actually a shitty bluffer. “Approximately 4,137 carats.”
My jaw went slack. “Sweet Jesus, that’s like”—I did the math in my head—“almost two pounds! It’s bigger than the Cullinan, right? Why does your boss call it the Ghost Cullinan?”
He tapped his fingers against the wheel while we waited at a red light. “When the Cullinan was discovered near Pretoria in 1905, one of its sides was perfectly smooth, likely the product of a split. The experts concluded that the stone was actually half of a bigger diamond and that the remaining part might still await in the Premier Mine.”
“The Ghost Cullinan?”
“Precisely. It was eventually found in early 2004. Tests confirmed its purity equaled the Cullinan’s and that it topped its sibling as the biggest natural diamond ever found.”
“So the Board decided to dig in—”
“Excellent choice of words. They charged Léa Chaptal with the task of stealing the stone from the Premier Mine before its discovery was made public,” he went on. It felt strange, almost painful, to hear my mother’s name in his mouth.
“Why didn’t she deliver it to them? What happened?”
He shrugged as the car restarted. “I’d be tempted to ask you.”
“Hilarious.”
“Thank you.” He smirked. “To answer your question, your mother’s motives are unknown. What we do know is that she had two accomplices. The first one was eventually identified by the Board. He went into hiding, and it took them ten years to catch him. His name was Victor Koerand. Ever heard of him?”
I shook my head. “You say ‘was’ . . . so he’s dead? Is he the guy who said my mother left me the Ghost Cullinan?”
“Yes. The Board found him in Tenerife a few weeks ago, and they sent someone to discuss the matter with him,” March confirmed.
A little chill made my scalp prickle. “You.”
“No.”
Reflecting on this laconic answer for a second, I gave it another try. “Creepy-hat?”
It seemed to take him a few seconds to figure out whom I was talking about, and when he did, a chuckle escaped his lips. “Yes. As much as I dislike his methods, he did bring results. Koerand confirmed the existence of a second accomplice, likely the one who convinced Léa to double play the Board and keep the diamond. Koerand helped Léa and that man access the vault in which the Cullinan was kept . . . and that’s when your name came up. ”
“I never had anything to do with that guy! I don’t even know him!” I nearly yelled.
March’s lips pressed together in a thoughtful expression. “Koerand’s tale was quite interesting: according to him, Léa became wary of her mysterious partner and tried to back away from their deal.”
“How so?”
“He claimed that Léa had been planning to give the Cullinan back to the Board after all. There’s no evidence of this being true, though. Léa made no attempt to contact the Board during the three months she spent in Tokyo.”
The more March spoke, the more I wondered how the hell my mother had been able to swim among such sharks. So far, every player in this game seemed to be either a gangster, a pathological liar, a corpse, or a combination of the three. “What do I have to do with this? Did the Board threaten to hurt me? Maybe this is why she was so afraid to go to them and waited instead.”
March went on. “Koerand said that Léa knew she was in danger; she was convinced that she didn’t have much time left to live.”
“Because either the Board or that second accomplice would have killed her as soon they got the diamond anyway?” I completed. That, at least, made sense.
He leaned back in his seat with a meditative sigh. “Possibly. Koerand wasn’t very clear about this point. He suggested that Léa hadn’t escaped to survive; she had merely wanted to scrape a little more time ‘to play her last card right’ before the inevitable.”
Survive.
I hadn’t paid much attention until now, but the sky around us had started to darken. I saw my own reflection in the windshield, the dark circles under my eyes, only accentuated by the pallor of my face, my messy hair, and to my left, March, as cold and collected as ever. In that moment, I wondered if I was really seeing myself . . . or my mother.
“March. You’re not answering my question. How did the Board end up thinking that I had the diamond?”
“Because according to Koerand, you were that card. He told the Board to look for the only person Léa would have trusted with the entire truth, the only person her second accomplice wouldn’t kill. You.”
What came out of my mouth was almost a snort, but believe me, I wasn’t amused. Just so damn bitter that laughing was all I could do not to cry. “She didn’t even trust me enough to tell me about her real job . . . Those guys from the Board are complete idiots for buying that kind of crap. Even I can see that Koerand was probably trying to feed them a name to escape getting tortured to death, and I’m not even a mobster to begin with!”
March ignored my remarks. “The only thing Koerand couldn’t reveal was the name of Léa’s second accomplice, who presumably helped her leave South Africa after the theft.”
The memory of a shadow and quiet footsteps on the parquet floor of our house in Pretoria filled my mind. The tall shadow. Could he be that second accomplice March was talking about? He had been my mother’s lover, this much I knew. She had never mentioned him in front of me, perhaps choosing to believe I wouldn’t hear his car park in the alley under the old Jacaranda tree when he visited her at night.
Even years after our brief stay in South Africa, my sleep was still sometimes haunted by memories of the way he whispered her name, of his silent, feline stride, or how they would sometimes open my bedroom door when th
ey thought I was asleep and stand together in the doorway for a few seconds. I had often wanted to ask her if she loved him. Was he nice to her? Would I ever meet him in daylight, see what he looked like? We had left Pretoria in a hurry—I now understood why—and my questions had been left unanswered, an occasional flicker of sadness in my mother’s eyes the only evidence he had ever existed.
Maybe my inner turmoil showed in my face, or maybe my ears turned a little red like they always do when I’m embarrassed. Whatever it was, March saw it, and he detached his gaze from the road for a second, icy-blue eyes daring me to try and lie to him. “What is it? Do you know the person who helped her escape?”
I averted my eyes. “My mother was seeing someone in Pretoria. I don’t know what he looked like, or his name. All I know is he had a car, and he was tall.”
March seemed skeptical. “How come you’ve never seen his face? What about his voice? What did he sound like?”
“He would only come at night. I think he was an Afrikaner. He had this slight accent when he spoke English. Well educated, I guess; kinda like you.”
His lips twitched in a derisive smile. “Island, you are well educated. I didn’t even go to high school.”
My face scrunched as I considered this bit of information. “Oh, sorry . . . Do you regret it, not finishing school?”
“Are you trying to analyze me?”
“Of course not!” I remembered my father’s lectures about displaying tact at all times, and never asking people if the way they yelled at their kid in the middle of a crowded train stemmed from a personal history of abuse. “I’m just curious from . . . say, a sociological point of view. I’ve never met anyone like you. Have you ever been to jail?”
He chuckled, shaking his head in a way suggesting that, despite my best efforts, I had said something weird and inappropriate again. “Yes, when I was young, but I believe you’re changing the subject. What else can you tell me about your mother’s lover?”
“Like I said, nothing. Maybe it’s not even related.”
His fingers resumed their drumming against the wheel. “You haven’t given me much so far.”
I didn’t like the way he said this. It sounded like people who couldn’t provide anything useful belonged in the trunk. Fighting a shudder, I slumped in my seat and stared at the road ahead of us.
We rode in silence for a little while, no doubt both reflecting on our bizarre arrangement, until I felt a low rumble in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and hunger was starting to kick in badly. Looking through the window, I noticed we had passed a small gas station with a large sign advertising a burger joint a few miles down the road. My stomach wrenched in anticipation. “Can we stop to buy food? It’s a drive-through. It will only take a few minutes.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, which didn’t mean he was happy in any way—I now fully understood that. “I’m afraid this is not an option.”
I frowned and leaned my forehead against the cold glass of the window, moping and wondering why he would deny me such a basic request. Then it hit me. “Don’t tell me it’s forbidden to eat in your car!”
He didn’t reply.
It was forbidden to eat in his fricking car! Aggravated, I turned my attention to the contents of the passenger door’s little storage compartment. Several travel maps of the USA and a bunch of Latin American countries rested there. He was a cautious driver: GPS could indeed let you down. They all appeared to belong to the same collection and were therefore of equal size, which had allowed him to press them together in two perfectly rectangular stacks of paper, standing parallel to each other in the compartment. Of course they were sorted by country and according to their respective number in the collection, in increasing order.
I moved the Mexico one, disrupting the left stack’s shape and order. March cast me an anxious sidelong glance but said nothing otherwise, focusing on the road. Empowered by his lack of reaction, I set my sights on New Jersey, pulling the map until it stuck out an inch or so from the right stack.
He smacked his tongue in annoyance. “Could you please stop that?”
I stifled a laugh. Waiting for him to relax a bit, I fiddled with his maps again and this time did the unthinkable: I moved a New Jersey map into the Latin countries stack.
The Lexus came to a screeching halt on the side of the road.
March wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was straight, locked on the twilight horizon line. “Fix this. Now.”
I stammered the closest thing to a sincere apology. “I’ll put them back in place . . . You’re not gonna kill me, right?”
“Not if you fix it.”
My heart racing, I worked on putting those damn maps the way they had been minutes ago. Once I was done, I crossed my arms and waited for him to start the car again. He didn’t. I looked back and forth between his stern gaze and the door storage until it hit me. The New Jersey map was still sticking out from the stack, its yellow cover glaring at me. I pushed it carefully and smoothed the compact stack until all sides felt even again. At last, the engine started.
Granted, he hadn’t shot me, but I couldn’t look at him for a while after the incident. The sun was setting, and as we drove, I mulled over his excessive reaction to such an insignificant stimulus. What if he had really gotten mad? Replaying the scene over and over again in my mind, I was desperately trying to find the right words to voice my concern.
“March, have you seen a shrink about this?” I cringed as soon as the words left my mouth. It had sounded so much subtler in my head.
“No, Island. I don’t need counseling. I need you not to touch anything in my car.”
I pursed my lips. “You know, I can give you the number of one of my dad’s friends. His office is on Beach Street, and he’s a great listener—”
His smile finally returned, as a small airport came in view. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“March, you are the single most damaged person I’ve ever met, and I include myself in that statement.”
“You’re not damaged, Island.”
“I’m making small talk with a hit man.”
He knew I had a point. Ducking his chin, he seemed to fight a laugh, and for the first time since we had met, I thought March could sometimes be charming.
SIX
The Trunk
“He had given up on love to lose himself in the never-ending night of crime. Only she could save his dark soul with the purity of her innocence.”
—Tracey Hurricane, Hit On by a Hit Man
My previous assessment had been wrong. What we reached wasn’t even an airport. It was rather a small private aerodrome. A staggering three planes waited outside a long hangar for potential passengers, and only one of them looked big enough for a flight all the way to France.
I had never seen a private jet up close before but assumed it was one, since it was larger than the two small Cessna-like planes and looked more like a tiny version of an airliner. Watching it from a distance, I have to say it was a bit underwhelming. I liked the paintwork, though, which appeared to represent blue waves of water engulfing the tail and threatening to swallow the white hull as it crashed into the ocean. Nice touch, especially for those afraid of flying. Squinting at the words painted in white on the tail’s stabilizer, I wondered if “Legacy” was the name of the company or the aircraft’s brand.
Lost as I was in my musings, I didn’t notice the fat bearded guy in a gray suit coming our way with a huge smile on his face. It was almost dark, but his teeth were so white he looked like Alice in Wonderland’s Cheshire Cat. March exited the car, locking me inside, and I watched as the man gave him a hug—which he welcomed rather stiffly. They chatted for a while before disappearing into the hangar. My eyes locked on the large metal door while I waited for them to return.
It’s crazy the way every noise sounds louder and sharper when you’re alone—or when you’re not listening to country for that matter. I hadn’t noticed that faint tapping until now. I looked aro
und, puzzled. The sound seemed to be coming from the backseats, or maybe the trunk, like something unsecured was moving around while the car . . .
Wait.
The car wasn’t moving.
I swore under my breath and loosened my seat belt with shaking hands. Thank God I was a midget; I managed to slide easily between the front seats to reach the backseat.
I whispered against the black leather, “Is there anyone here?”
A muffled groan answered me, and I jerked back in panic. I hadn’t been offered the passenger seat because March was nice to the ladies; I had because the trunk was already taken! Cold sweat dampened my skin as I frantically looked for a way to fold the seats, pulling with all my strength. I’m not sure what I did, but at some point the left seat clicked and gave way, revealing a black-haired man swaddled in some kind of body bag with straps everywhere. March had left the man’s head outside of the bag, but a large band of duct tape covered his mouth. I stared for a few seconds at the tattooed tears and numbers on his face, his angry brown eyes, and poked the duct tape with a trembling finger. A growl welcomed this first contact, prompting me to tug at the silvery tape gingerly. More loud grunts followed as I worked on removing the damn thing, and I discovered he had a thin mustache—most of which remained stuck to the tape.
Once I was done, he swallowed a big gulp of air and hissed at me with a strong Spanish accent. “Get the hell out, pequeña! You are in great danger!”
Blood froze in my veins and I recoiled instinctively. “Oh my God! He told me he wouldn’t kill me! But you . . . Was he going to—”
“What do you think? Somoza sent that fucking psicópato after my ass!” He snarled, revealing a row of white teeth with sharp incisors.
Okay. So that Somoza person had hired March to kill my co-hostage. Logic and some modicum of social prejudice therefore suggested that Somoza was a bad person.
That guy in the trunk might be a bad person too.
March was a bad—just kidding, that had already been thoroughly established.
