I chose a trail that ran along a rock ridge. At a couple of spots, the ridge dropped off fifty or sixty feet onto rocks below—okay for a man wearing night vision; dangerous for a man who wasn’t.
At the narrowest section, I thought about stringing a trip wire. Wrap it with the special tape—I would see it. Anyone chasing me would not. But if an innocent hiker came tromping along this path . . . ?
Couldn’t do it.
I continued walking . . . then froze as parrots flushed from trees to my left, screaming an alert. I stood there for a long minute, searching the shadows. Something, or someone, had spooked the birds.
I pocketed the marking tape, and slipped the Colt from the back of my pants. Slowly, I started uphill toward a grove of traveler’s palms where the parrots had been. The leaves of the palms fanned out like a green wall . . . but the wall was moving—something in there.
I had the little semiautomatic palmed, not showing it but ready, when two iguanas came snaking out—miniature dragons, skin iridescent green, reptilian tongues probing. They were the size of small dogs.
I watched, focusing on the green wall. Iguanas eat birds’ eggs, and sometimes birds. Parrots would flush at their approach and scream an alert.
So why did I suddenly feel as if the jungle had eyes? That I was being watched?
Ridiculous. A cliché from cowboy movies; folklore from childhood. I don’t believe in such things.
I holstered the pistol and moved on.
14
THE WOMAN WHO’D BEEN WEARING the Michigan shirt, but was now in a sundress, tropical yellow with spaghetti straps that showed her thick tan shoulders, asked me, “Is it dangerous to swim in the lagoon? Sharks, I mean. That’s what the girls and I were wondering. We’re from the snow belt—” She shrugged, grinning to let me know it might be silly. “—and this is our first trip to the islands.”
I told her, “Most resorts, you don’t have to worry about sharks until you’re out of the water. Probably the same on Saint Arc.”
Big smile. “Like the Jimmy Buffett song? ’Fins.’ ” She was intrigued, not concerned.
“Who knows the islands better?” I smiled, joking but not joking. Letting her think about it as I opened the plastic case I carry as a portable lab. It contained collecting jars, chemicals for testing water, a plastic slurp-tube for catching sea jellies and small reef fish—the dutiful biologist at work.
I had anchored my rental boat in the shallows—a cheap tri-hull with an antique Evinrude that would do until tomorrow when I took possession of a loaner—a seventeen-foot Maverick with a one-fifty Yamaha. It was as fast and stable as my boat, just smaller.
Tomlinson had been right about new contacts. I’d hitched a ride with Lags in his Gulfstream jet—no problem with customs at the private airport—and my friend Skip Lyshon arranged for a demo boat from the Hewes/Pathfinder dealer on Saint Lucia.
I had decided not to phone Beryl again—even though it meant I couldn’t check in to the couples retreat that, according to Bernie, was somehow associated with the blackmailer. If Beryl agreed to join me, there would be too many questions to dodge.
That was okay. I was playing it by ear, letting the situation pull me along until I sensed the right opening. Locate a trap and, sooner or later, the trapper will appear.
I had found the trap. I still had six days—plenty of time to lay low and let events play out until the blackmailer revealed himself. Trouble was, this smiling woman in the yellow sundress was his prey. Her three friends, too—I waved at them now as they walked from the house, and stopped when they spotted me on the beach.
The temptation was to tell them what to expect tomorrow night, but I couldn’t. If they contacted police, the blackmailer would know. He’d shut down the operation for a week or two, then be right back at it. Worse, it would put him on alert and make it tougher for me to locate his stash of videos. If he’d kept a copy of Shay’s tape, he probably had them all. That’s what I was after—the collection. If it didn’t work out, negotiating a private deal was a last option.
I couldn’t tell the ladies, but I could at least plant a warning. So I had changed into jogging shorts, then waded with mask and fins to the beach, as if getting ready to dive into the lagoon. Then I’d futzed around with the portable lab until the woman struck up a conversation.
The woman glanced at her friends now and waved them closer, still smiling at my joke about land sharks. She extended her hand. “My name’s Madeleine. But everyone calls me Mattie.”
I said, “Marion—or Doc,” doing first names only—common at resorts—even though we’d been talking for several minutes.
I already knew that Mattie was the mother of two college-aged children. Because she didn’t mention a husband, I assumed she was divorced, not widowed. She wasn’t exactly retired, because managing the family business took a lot of time. “Managing” was said in a way that suggested stocks, properties, and liquid assets. Wealthy—golden eggs, the guy with the pirate bandanna had called them.
Mattie was on Saint Arc because two of her best friends were getting married. This was their private girls-only celebration before the October wedding.
A familiar scenario.
She was looking at her friends now as she said, “See the two tall gals? Those are the twins. Never been married before, never came close, and we’re so darn happy for them. At our age, I mean. We thought it was never gonna happen, then boom, they met the two nicest guys you could ever want. Can you guess what I’m about to tell you?”
“The twins met twins?”
Mattie had an easygoing familiarity not uncommon with large women. She nudged me with her shoulder, lowering her voice as her friends approached. “Yep. Identical twins, just like the gals. Farmers. Big spreads in upstate New York, and they’ve never been married, either. You’ve never seen four happier kids in your life.”
I smiled. Kids—talking about those tall, bony women in their forties, but it fit because of their suntan glow and their vacation faces.
“We’re all Smithies. We’ve been through hell together.”
I said, “Smithies?”
“Smith College. Northampton, Mass. Our class colors are yellow and blue—” In a louder voice, she called, “Haven’t we been through hell together, gals?” The women were laughing as they joined us, all dressed for dinner in the tropics, bright scarves and sandals, frozen margaritas in their hands as they gave me the eye—Who was this big stranger with Mattie?
Twins in blue dresses; Mattie and Carol wore yellow—Carol, another large woman, but not outgoing. Unlike Mattie, hers was the articulate syntax of Long Island wealth. She was suspicious, too. Good for her.
After a while, Carol asked me, “Why would a marine biologist come to a resort to do research?”
I told her, “I’m not staying on Saint Arc. I’ve got a place over there.” I looked beyond the lagoon toward Saint Lucia, four miles away. Green volcanic peaks, half a mile high, on an emerald canvas. “This lagoon looked interesting from the air, so I decided to take a look.”
Carol was unconvinced. “Then we shouldn’t keep you . . . Doc, did you say? Doctor of what? And where did you get your Ph.D.?”
I told her, adding, “My name’s North. Marion North,” aware that Carol’s attitude had alerted the others: four women with money, but smart. Had to be. Unless a sex change increases the human IQ by twenty points, there’s no possible way I would have ever been accepted at Smith College.
Because I wanted to keep it friendly, I turned to Mattie and asked, “Do you ladies like seafood?”
“Are you kidding? We love it. But . . . we already have dinner plans tonight—” She glanced at Carol, their leader. “Don’t we, girls?”
I said, “That’s not what I meant. If you’re still around when I finish my dive, maybe I’ll bring you a present. Something for tomorrow night.”
“A gift from the sea,” said Carol with an edge. “How nice.”
THE LAGOON was a sand basin that sloped toward a p
recipice at the canyon’s rim. I snorkeled to the edge of the drop-off, jackknifed, and descended, kicking leisurely with my old Rocket fins.
Staghorn shadows on white sand . . . cone shells burrowing—venomous hunters. Reef fish. Prismatic scales: yellow, blue, chrome. There were parrotfish . . . sergeant majors . . . snappers . . . barracudas dark on the rim of visibility, horizontal observers like rungs on a ladder . . . medusa jellies dragging rainsquall tentacles.
I’d brought the spear gun, but continued downward along the canyon wall. Ledges . . . brain corals . . . mouth of a cave?
I surfaced, took several breaths, then dived again.
Yes, a cave. It was wider than my shoulders; a natural opening in the wall. I looked to the surface thirty feet above—barracuda over me now— then peeked into the cave. Expected a moray eel . . . instead, saw a forest of antennas.
Spiny lobsters.
I surfaced, traded spear gun for gloves and a net bag, and returned to the ledge.
A couple of minutes later, the bag was alive with kicking, creaking lobsters.
The women were scattered among hammocks and porch rockers as I approached the house. Lost in books, fresh drinks, conversation. Carol was saying to Mattie, “. . . but why waste time with another tourist when we can meet people who actually live here—” then stopped when she noticed me.
Instead of pretending I hadn’t heard, I said, “I agree. Getting to know the locals is the best part of travel.” I held up the bag. “Let me introduce you to some locals.”
Mattie and the twins surrounded me as I spread the lobsters out on a banana leaf. Six biggies, no eggs—I’d checked.
“Where are their claws?” one of the twins asked.
“New England lobster are a different species. I like these better. Melted butter, fresh limes, sea salt. Tomorrow night, you could build a fire on the beach and steam them.”
Mattie said, “How does that sound, Carol? Do it like the islanders do it.”
I said, “You should—but stay smart. Trust the wrong islanders, you’re in big trouble. It could be fatal.”
Carol placed her book on the chair as she stood. “I hope you’re not talking about the wonderful people who live here.”
I let her see that I was confused before saying, “Oh, you thought I was talking about . . . ? No, I meant the lagoon. Not everything’s safe to eat. I saw cone shells—their sting’s venomous. Probably wouldn’t kill you, but it would put you in the hospital. Certain fish—barracuda, some reef fish—can be toxic.” I thought about it as I rebagged the lobster. “On the other hand, maybe I accidentally made a good point. Resorts attract con men. Crooks hustle tourists. They slip drugs into women’s drinks. It’s rare—like a black jellyfish I saw in the lagoon. But the poisonous ones are around.”
Carol didn’t soften. “It must be nice to be so well-traveled that you can pass judgment on people you’ve never met.”
I smiled as I replied, “If I sound overly critical, it’s probably because I’m overly sober,” thinking the woman would loosen up and offer me a margarita. She didn’t.
As I left, Mattie walked me to the beach and said, “Doc, you have to come back tomorrow night and have lobster. We’ll build a fire.”
I said, “Maybe. I’d have to boat back to Saint Lucia after dark—pretty scary. Think it would be safe?”
The woman sent a signal with her eyes as she said, “Not necessarily,” having fun with the double meaning. “We have plenty of room—and we also have two bottles of rum and half a bottle of tequila to drink before we leave on Tuesday. And, uh—” She lowered her voice. “—even Carol agreed that what happens on this island stays on the island. We’re here to have fun. Three days from now, we’ll be back where everyone knows us.”
What I wanted to do was take the woman by the shoulders, look her in the eyes, and unload the truth. Share a couple of the nasty jokes from the camera blind so she knew the kind of men she’d be dealing with.
Instead, I said, “Don’t hold dinner—but don’t be surprised if I show up, either. It might be late. Okay?”
The possibility of my showing up might make it less likely that she and the others would follow the blackmailer’s script.
“Just bang on the door,” Mattie told me. “Or come around back to the pool if you hear music. We’ll be here.”
15
SUNDAY, JUNE 23RD
That night, I watched Mattie and Carol from my hidden spot above the beach house. They had their backs to the bar when the guy with the pirate bandanna—Bandanna Man—slipped the drug into the pitcher of margaritas. Something poured from an envelope. Powder. He crumpled the envelope, jammed it into his shorts, and hit the blender button as Carol turned.
“Bob Marley okay with you? Or something better for dancing?” Mattie was flipping through CDs while Carol did the talking, already sounding eager to please these three young guys wearing baggies and open shirts as they shared a cigar-sized joint in the glow of tiki torches and blue pool lights.
“Or maybe Marley’s too commercial. Whatever you say—in the States that’s all we hear, commercial garbage. But we’re not typical tourists, okay? Traditional reggae, steel drums—I love it. But what are islanders really into?”
Now the guys were sharing private smiles, too—funny, this straight-looking woman already drunk, trying to sound hip before she’d even tasted the special margaritas. Embarrassed, maybe, by the cornstalk twins who didn’t want to dance, who didn’t want to invite strangers to the pool, so they’d split, leaving these two wide-bodied ladies on their own.
“Carol? Carol. What’s wrong with Bob Marley? We don’t have to dance. I don’t even feel like dancing.” Mattie made a show of yawning, a CD in her hand. “In fact, it’s getting late. And these fellas probably have better things to do.”
Bandanna Man’s face reacted: Christ, now she’s scared. The evening would be a bust if he didn’t act fast, so he held up the blender and said, “Man, there ain’t nothin’ better than hanging with pretty ladies. Why you want us to go ’way now? It’s not yet eight-thirty.”
Flashing Mattie a look, Carol said, “We don’t want you to leave.”
Ritchie was Bandanna Man with his dreadlocks and pirate scarf . . . his pals were Dutch and Peter Lorre—that’s the way I thought of them even though I’d heard their names. Shay had said two looked European, possibly Dutch. What the hell did that mean? I finally saw it in Dirk, the biggest of the three: square jaw, square shoulders, square blond side-burns. A few years back, an Alabama high school girl disappeared on Aruba after partying with locals. He resembled one of the suspects— Dutch.
Clovis was Peter Lorre because he looked like the old-time actor from the Bogart films. Same slumped shoulders and protuberant eyes. He struck poses and moved like a weasel. Smooth, quiet, black hair slicked back with busy hands.
Clovis struck a pose now—mock deference—when Ritchie said, “What these ladies need is a drink. Why are you gentlemen standing there when you should be lookin’ after refreshments for our new friends?”
He began filling plastic beer cups from the blender, saying, “Bob Marley—nothin’ ever wrong with listenin’ to brother Bob. But you serious about not wantin’ the same junk music every tourist wants?”
“Yes! I told you, we’re not tourists, we’re travelers. We didn’t come to buy trinkets and get a tan.”
“No ‘Yellow Bird’? No ‘Jamaica Farewell’?” Big grin.
“My God,” Carol said, “spare me! Mattie and I study cultures. It must be horrible for you, putting up with a bunch of idiotic tourists, the same music, the same questions day after day. Ritchie, don’t let the age difference throw you. We’re open to new experiences.”
“Age? Carol darlin’, age don’t mean nothing. It’s a woman’s soul what matters.”
“That’s so sweet; like poetry—and it’s so true! Mattie, isn’t that wonderful?”
Now Mattie flashed Carol a look, but Carol didn’t catch it because Ritchie was handing them margar
itas as he danced past.
Carol took a sip, then another before saying, “Here . . . this is exactly what I’m talking about. A real margarita, not that awful Kool-Aid crap they serve in the States. Fresh lime and damn good tequila.” She touched the rim with her finger. “Real sea salt.”
Resigned, Mattie took a long gulp, looking at the door. She said, “Yeah, sea salt,” as if thinking about the lobster they hadn’t cooked, and maybe about a marine biologist who’d failed to arrive.
Then the music started. Marley and the Wailers, Jammin’. I couldn’t hear them clearly anymore.
WOLFIE, THE BAGMAN, was also the cameraman.
From my platform on the rock, through an opening in the ferns, I watched him move through the forest toward the blind, a canvas bag on his shoulder. Huge, round, stocky man with an oversized round head, wearing the Italian sunglasses even though it was dark—a man committed to fashion. Beside him, walking at heel, was a dog. Well-trained but alert—Doberman and pit bull mix, it looked like—tall as a greyhound, all muscle beneath brown brindle hide.
Geezus.
Shay’s father had been in the dogfight business and raised pit bulls. They were as nasty as Dexter Money. My uncle Tucker had owned one, too, a surly animal named Gator. But Wolfie had obviously spent a lot of time or money training his dog—a man who worked alone and needed protection.
I got ready to retreat when I saw the dog, my hand on the little Colt pistol. But then I got a whiff of the cigarillo Wolfie was smoking and relaxed a little. Wind was out of the west, blowing my scent away from the dog. Because of the ferns, and because I was wearing dark pants, a black T-shirt, and an old Navy watch cap, it was unlikely they’d see me. Stay quiet, remain hidden, and the dog would be as unaware as Wolfie that I was doing countersurveillance.
Black Widow Page 14
