Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  “You’re not using my knife, man.”

  “You better listen to me, Dutch.” The two men stood nose to nose. “I can take that knife if I want. You know it’s true.”

  Dutch hesitated, then said, “Take the fucking knife, man. But I’m wiping it clean first. Then give me and Clovis twenty minutes to get to the Green Turtle so we got alibis. I don’t want to hear nothing more about this shit.”

  Ritchie reached and took the knife. “I ain’t giving you shit, man. A minute from now, you’ll hear those tall bitches screaming. That makes you an accessory. So you better run, boy.”

  As Ritchie turned toward the house, though, the other two were walking fast to keep up with him, not running away. He was the leader, Shay had told me. Now they were following him into murder.

  I was running as I drew the Colt.

  THEY COULDN’T SEE ME, but I could see them . . . could see the three men marching toward the house single file, Dutch at the rear, taller, heavier than the others. Could see Ritchie in tank top and baggy shorts, blond curls beneath the pirate scarf, still using the towel to dab at his nose. Glint of knife blade . . .Clovis took a folding knife from his pocket, too, and snapped it open, then handed it to Dutch, who hesitated before he took it. Clovis with his weasel ways, playing both sides, letting others do the dirty work. But he was into this.

  They never saw me coming.

  At the last second, though, Dutch heard me. I was running full speed when he turned. I saw his eyes: a mix of confusion and surprise. The expression was still on his face when I dropped my shoulder and hit him in the spine, kidney-high, from behind.

  “What the fuck!”

  The impact was jarring, but I rolled, came up onto my feet, then used the gun butt to club Ritchie on the side of the head. Too stunned to react, he collapsed backward onto the sand. I stood over him for a moment before I stepped on his right wrist until he let go of the knife.

  As I picked it up, he said, “Who . . . who the hell are you, man?”

  I was breathing hard, already moving toward Dutch. “Leave the women alone. Understand?”

  To my left, Clovis was backing away, saying, “I’ve got nothing to do with what they was planning, mister, you can believe me on that . . .” Then, his voice changed as my head swiveled toward him; sounded like he was scared shitless, saying, “Ritchie . . . Jesus Christ, you see that? He’s . . . he’s only got one eye, man,” talking about the glow from the monocular.

  When I got to Dutch, he was moaning, saying he thought his back was broken, and asking, “What the hell happened? Am I dreaming this?” sounding like he was going into shock. I’d hurt him.

  I picked up the second knife, tried to fold it closed, but couldn’t find the lock, so I held both knives in my left hand as I holstered the Colt.

  Clovis was still looking at me, backing away, whispering, “This here person ain’t no man, man. You see? He’s got one eye in the middle of his damn head . . . it’s glowing. Just like the old people say—got an eye that glows like a cat.”

  He turned to Dutch, yelling to make sure I heard. “You see what you done, saying those nasty things about the Widow? It wasn’t us that did it . . . it was you that talked bad about that good lady.”

  Islanders believed it.

  I nudged Dutch with my foot as I said to Clovis and Ritchie, “Get this guy on his feet, and don’t come back. Move.”

  I didn’t stomp my foot like with the pit bull, but the reaction was similar.

  17

  CAROL SAID TO ME, “Our hero. Just in the nick of time,” being sarcastic as Mattie led me into the kitchen of the beach house where one of the twins was boiling water for tea as the other held a bag of ice to Carol’s cheek, which was swollen, already turning purple.

  The twin making tea gave Mattie a pointed look and said, “Why would you bring another stranger into this house after what just happened?”

  Mattie was a sobbing, shaky wreck, still paranoid from the drug they’d slipped into the margaritas. It had taken me several minutes to talk my way into the house. Now this.

  Mattie said, “We need help, that’s why. Carol should go to the hospital. And we’ve got to tell the police—”

  “No hospital!” Carol snapped. “No police! We are getting off this fucking island tomorrow and no one—no one—is ever going to mention what happened tonight again.”

  The twin holding the ice began stroking the woman’s hair, calming her. Carol was wearing a bathrobe now, her yellow dress nearby on the tile floor. It was ripped and missing buttons.

  I said, “Mattie’s right. I’ve got a boat. I can take all of you to Saint Lucia—it’s only a few miles. You’ll be safe, and the place I’m staying will know a good doctor.”

  Carol yelled, “No,” as the twin making tea focused on me, sounding like an attorney as she asked, “Safe from what? Mattie, what did you tell this man?”

  Mattie said, “Nothing. He’s only trying to help, can’t you see that?”

  The twin was staring at me. “Answer my question—safe from what? Our friend slipped getting out of the pool and hit her face. So why would you think we’re in some kind of danger?”

  I said, “Because I passed three guys when I was coming up the road. They looked suspicious, like they were in a hurry to get away.”

  “Did you speak to them?”

  I took too long to respond. “No.”

  “If they looked suspicious, and you were concerned about our safety, why didn’t you at least speak to them?”

  I pointed to the dress. “Because I hadn’t seen that yet. Or Carol’s face.”

  Carol said, “He didn’t speak to them because he’s a coward. Now he wants to play the hero, but what he really wants to do is get in Mattie’s pants. I knew it the first moment I saw him. For all we know, he’s one of them.”

  Mattie began to cry harder, disconsolate as I squeezed her shoulder and said, “You’re wrong. I should’ve said something to the men, I agree, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. What I can do is find a doctor and bring him here. But I think Saint Lucia is a better idea. Saint Lucia isn’t corrupt like Saint Arc. You’d be safe, and it’s not far. We’ll come back for your things tomorrow. My boat’s anchored just around the point.”

  Maybe both twins were attorneys, because the one holding ice to Carol’s face asked, “Why did you park your boat on the other side of the point if you came to visit us?”

  I was crossing the room to the sink, where dishes were piled, including the blender Ritchie had used—a few inches of margarita left. I opened the lid and sniffed as I said, “If you had company when I got here, I was going to walk to the resort and have a drink. I didn’t want to anchor twice.”

  I sniffed the blender again and made a face. “Did one of you make this?”

  The twins could converse without speaking. Their eyes met, as if confirming something. “Why do you ask?”

  “It smells odd.”

  “You warned us earlier, didn’t you, about resorts where the drinks are drugged?”

  I said, “That’s right, I did.”

  “What a coincidence. And why do you have sand all over your clothes? Those scratches on your face and the back of your hands—they weren’t there yesterday. It looks to me like you’ve been sneaking around in the bushes. Now I suppose you want to take the blender, so you can test it in your little portable lab?” More sarcasm.

  I knew what the answer would be before I replied. “As a matter of fact, I’d like a sample. Half-a-test-tube full, that’s all.”

  The twins locked eyes, discussing it in silence, before they stopped what they were doing, then came around the counter to face me, standing side by side. “We’ve decided it’s time for you to leave, Dr. North—or whatever your name is. If you want to argue the point or continue your silly little act, you should know we began studying the martial arts when we were in grade school . . . and we both played field hockey at Smith. You won’t be the first man we’ve tossed out of a room.”
r />   Mattie had recovered enough to say, “I’m sorry, Doc. But I think you’d better go,” looking at me, a nice woman with sad, aching eyes.

  I squeezed Mattie’s arm, gave her a wink, and said, “Don’t be sorry. You’re safe now, in good hands. That’s all that matters.”

  I shouldered my backpack as I started for the door, but then stopped, unzipped the bag, and tossed the two knives I’d taken from the men onto a chair. I’d already inspected them—cheap, no inscriptions on the blades.

  I said, “Keep these, just in case there’s trouble.”

  The twins were escorting me, only a step behind. “Where’d those come from?”

  I said, “The three guys I passed coming on the trail? They dropped them.”

  “They dropped them. Just like that, huh?”

  I said, “That’s right. Like I told you, they were in a hurry. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

  The twins’ eyes moved from the scratches on my hands to my face, and then they exchanged looks again with a new awareness—reappraisal time. “You took these knives from them, that’s what happened.” I smiled and said, “I hope your grooms realize how damn lucky they are. It’s like tonight—sometimes luck’s just on your side.”

  I GOT TO SAINT LUCIA around eleven and walked into my luxury suite with its infinity pool, ceiling fans, a room with only three walls open to the sea, to find that someone had slipped an envelope under the door.

  Dr. M. North

  Personal

  Expensive stationery embossed with the initials JHM on the seal. Heavy, masculine hand with a slight tremor, suggesting age. I opened the envelope.

  Dr. North, I am having a nightcap on the upper terrace of the Jade Club. I’ve had staff organize a midnight tea if you’re interested. I realize I’m being presumptuous in advance of an introduction, but it concerns a matter of mutual interest, I believe, and of grave importance.

  Cordially,

  Col. James H. Montbard RM (ret.) GBE DMC FIEC

  Written with British syntax and formality, as were the postnominal letters associated with the British Honours System. I had never heard of the man, but understood it was from Sir James Montbard, recipient of the Knight Grande Cross, the Distinguished Military Cross, a retired colonel in the British Royal Marines, and an International Fellow of the Explorers Club.

  Impressive. But how did he know I was here?

  It was only my second night at Jade Mountain, a lodge and nature preserve consisting of six hundred acres of rain forest and beach on the southwestern shore of Saint Lucia. I’d chosen Jade Mountain because it is among the most private and exclusive resorts in the Caribbean, and because it was built into a mountainside with a clear view of Saint Arc, a few miles to the west, and Anse Chastanet Bay below, where I’d moored the Maverick.

  Because I was doing countersurveillance, it would’ve been easier to stay near the beach house on Saint Arc. But that would put me under the control of the local government. It would have invited interaction with authorities and suspicion from the locals. If you seek anonymity, hide yourself among the very poor or the very wealthy.

  Jade Mountain attracted the famous and rich, but of an unusual variety. The lodge had no air-conditioning, no glassed windows or screens. Suites were open on the seaward side, no walls or shutters, so it was like living outdoors in a luxury cliff dwelling—rare woods, custom tiles— jungle all around. The place was brilliantly designed. Rooms were breezy, each with its own infinity pool, water cool as the deep mountain spring that fed them. The staff was unobtrusive; privacy guaranteed.

  But I hadn’t been at the place long enough to meet anyone—and I didn’t want to meet anyone. The previous evening, I’d had dinner alone at the beach restaurant at Anse Chastanet—jerked pork with lime rice, mango chutney, and some very good pepper sauce. In the morning, I’d gone for a long swim, ordered fresh fruit and coffee brought to the room, then went looking for a place to send e-mails.

  The only Internet access was at the reception cottage, a quarter-way up the mountain. I wrote to Shay and Beryl, asking questions I should have asked earlier: Aside from investing in the resort on Saint Lucia, did Michael’s family have other business connections in the Eastern Caribbean? Saint Arc—had Shay discovered it on her own, or had someone recommended it? What was Ida Jonquil’s maiden name?

  Aside from the woman at reception, and my waiter, I hadn’t spoken to anyone else.

  That’s why it made no sense there was something so gravely important that a distinguished man like Sir Colonel James Montbard would track me here . . . if Sir James was who he claimed to be.

  STANDING ON AN OPEN TERRACE, looking down at the Caribbean Sea four hundred feet below, Sir James told me, “In my opinion, Saint Lucia is the most beautiful island in the British Commonwealth—apart from England herself, of course.”

  I said, “Of course,” sipping the Singapore Sling he’d ordered, looking at silhouettes of mountains across the bay where a few lights glimmered: beach huts, cooking fires, sailboats at anchor.

  “Saint Lucia was undiscovered for decades,” he said, “like a beautiful mistress—but only because it was so wonderfully camouflaged by her association with the French. Napoleon’s wife, Josephine, was born here, you know. All the French names: Soufriére, Castries, Moule á Chique. And those famous peaks you’re staring at: the Pitons—Gros Piton and Petit Piton. ‘Tip of a bull’s horn,’ it means. Naturally, travelers assumed this island was French, so they avoided Saint Lucia like the plague. Understandable, in my opinion.”

  I said, “Some would agree,” before asking, “Why are they famous?,” meaning the twin volcanic peaks, weathered rock, and jungle that rose from the sea like pyramids, towers half a mile high.

  “I could give you the standard line about landmarks for sailors,” Sir James said, “but, truth is, they’re famous because they’re the most sexually suggestive rock formations in the Caribbean. Have a look now, let your eyes blur for a moment. Then tell me what you see.”

  I did it, and laughed. "X-rated. I understand now.”

  “They’ve found petroglyphs on those mountains more than a thousand years old. Are you interested in archaeology, Dr. North?”

  “I have a traveler’s interest.”

  “Traveler, eh?” His reply had an unusual inflection, as if inspecting the comment for double meaning. “I’m a traveler myself . . .” He waited several beats before continuing. “. . . and an International Fellow of the Explorers Club, I’m proud to say. Archaeology is a passion of mine. Inherited it from my grandfather. Amateur or professional, you must do serious field work to be voted in as a Fellow. I’ve published a few things on the pre-Colombian sites in the Caribbean and Meso-America that I’d like to think contributed to the literature.”

  We talked for a few minutes about the Caribs, the Arawak, the stone pyramids of Tikal in Guatemala—he’d worked at a dig there—before he got back to the subject of the famous peaks and sexuality.

  “The Pitons have always been associated with fertility rites and magic—first the Arawak, then escaped slaves with their obeah and voodoo. Now it’s every mix of race and religion because Anse Chastanet is a favorite honeymoon destination.

  “My God,” he continued, “you didn’t hear the sounds coming out of the forest this morning?” The man chuckled and cupped a hand over his pipe as he relit it. “Positively obscene—and delightful. One couple awakes, sees those peaks, and they become amorous. Their sounds arouse the couple in the next cottage, and then the next—there are no windows or shutters, of course, to buffer the sounds—so the entire rain forest is echoing before long with the most primitive noises you can imagine. They yip and roar like gorillas. Even to an old campaigner like me, it occasionally gets the blood stirring.”

  I said, “You don’t strike me as old.” A half truth. Sitting across the table, wearing pleated slacks, a sea-cotton shirt, and shooting jacket with a recoil patch and epaulets, Montbard was the 1940s prototype of the retired English gentleman. He was b
alding, not tall, and had the brown, tight-skinned face of a Brit who’d spent decades in the tropics.

  On closer inspection, though, I noted the thick forearms and hands, the crease of scar tissue beneath his left eye, the way slacks bunched around his waist while the jacket strained at the shoulders. The man was in great shape.

  Something else I noticed: the way the jacket’s inseams were tailored loose beneath the arms—room for a shoulder holster?—and, on his left hand, a gold ring engraved with a symbol that was difficult to make out because he wore the engraving palm-side down. Also because the ring was weathered. I finally got a look: a skull and crossbones raised within a pyramid—an esoteric Masonic symbol that I’d seen only a few times in my life.

  “But I am old,” Montbard insisted. “The howling of young honeymooners reminds me of the truth. My first and last wife, Victoria, God rest her soul, would agree. My quarters are just down the mountain, so there’s no escaping it. Family property, you know, deeded to us during the colonial uprising—the American Revolution, you’d call it.”

  I said, “I’m surprised someone hasn’t made a recording and sold it on the Internet—‘Sunrise at Anse Chastanet,’ ” letting the sentence hang there so I could gauge the man’s reaction. I’d decided his invitation probably had something to do with blackmail.

  We were halfway through our first drink and were still making small talk. Montbard had the focused, easygoing manner of an executive used to assessing applicants after only a few minutes of polite conversation. I expected to be dismissed at any moment, which convinced me he was the man he claimed to be.

  That’s the only reason I stayed there listening to a seventy-some-year-old Brit lecture me on the history of an island that, so far, I didn’t find as interesting as Colombia or Nicaragua, countries to the northwest.

  Sir James said, “Ah . . . here we go,” as two women came onto the terrace, carrying trays. “I’m a bit of a night owl, I’m afraid. Keep odd hours—an old habit from my days with the regiment. Hope you don’t find a midnight tiff too shocking.”