Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  “Traditional religions tend to be wishy-washy when it comes to dealing with one’s enemies. Turn the other cheek, that sort of nonsense. Not obeah. It encourages believers to take the offensive. A properly done curse can banish an enemy, or even kill him.

  “Obeah isn’t about the afterlife. It deals with the here and now. If a believer gets out of line? There are creatures who come out at night and punish—vampire witches and flesh-eating spirits. No waiting for Judgment Day.”

  “Adults really believe that?”

  Montbard signaled impatience by striking another match. “Are you telling me you have no secret superstitions? Aren’t we all absolutely certain that what we believe is right and real? It’s true of all faiths. I think it’s true of people like you and me, as well. Science is your religion. Archaeology, history—tradition, too, I suppose—are mine.”

  I shrugged—Valid point—remembering Ritchie telling Dirk the Widow would punish him for his disrespect.

  “Obeah isn’t fantasy-based. It’s as real as blood and bones. I think you’d have a better understanding if you had a chat with Lucien St. John, a man who was employed by my family for years. He was my source for much of what I’ve just told you. Lucien is in his nineties now and doesn’t mind talking about it. Only fair that we share intelligence assets.”

  Turning to Senegal, Sir James said, “Last night, Dr. Ford told me that his sources have linked the blackmailer with that spa we were discussing, the one on Saint Arc. The place called the Orchid—so exclusive the waiting list is months. But Ford must have friends in high places, because he somehow finagled a reservation, starting tomorrow. Quite a coincidence, eh, Senny?”

  Over drinks at Jade Mountain, Montbard had been poker-faced when I mentioned the spa, but now he was being facetious. I said, “You already knew about it?”

  The man was nodding. “Quite. The spa includes the ruins of a monastery that I’ve been interested in for years because of its archaeological importance. The place is ancient. Built by French Carthusian monks—an order that dates back to the eleventh century. The maternal branch of Toussaint’s family has done business in the islands even longer than my own. That’s how she came to own the place.”

  Toussaint owned many other properties on the island, Montbard told me, including the beach cottage that Shay had rented, and the mountain villa where they’d entrapped Senegal. The woman used corporate fronts, he said, but he’d finally tracked the titles to her.

  “Privately, Madame Toussaint oversees her holdings as ruthlessly as a dictator. Publicly, she’s rarely seen. She raises orchids—has an international reputation in the field—and one of her companies markets a line of boutique beauty concoctions. She also fancies herself a jet-set hostess, even though she seldom attends her own parties. Didn’t you tell me that, Senny? I suppose some people crave any association with power.”

  Senegal said, “I heard it from a member of parliament who’s been to the spa—a particularly unsavory member, by the way. Part of the woman’s mystique, I guess. Makes people want to meet her all the more. A year ago, she upped her stock with that crowd when she bought the Midnight Star—among the world’s most famous star sapphires. Had it set as a necklace.”

  I said, “An obeah priestess who hosts parties?”

  Montbard said, “Oh, she would never admit she practices obeah, just as she would never admit she promotes the rumor she’s the Maji Blanc. Most islanders won’t even acknowledge that obeah exists. Secrecy is one of the religion’s tenets.

  “I met the old girl only twice—at an embassy function in Kingston, then again two years ago when I asked permission to spend a day or two photographing the monastery ruins. She looks like a bit of a flake—rouge and lipstick, turbans and kaftans, that sort of business. Her overall appearance is . . . memorable. And her breath! My God.”

  “She refused?”

  “Screamed like a crazy woman. Ran me off the place. Ever since, I’ve wanted an excuse to slip back there. Now Senegal has provided me an excellent reason. But it’s not an easy nut to crack. The woman’s château and the staff quarters adjoin the spa grounds, which includes the monastery. The property sits atop a peak similar to our smallest piton, and she controls the only road. Security is better than you might expect.”

  “Sounds remote.”

  “Everything on these bloody islands is remote unless you travel by water.”

  “Does she ever leave?”

  “She keeps an apartment in Paris, I’ve been told. Goes there for two months in the autumn for an international orchid competition. Otherwise, she stays on her mountain.”

  I said, “It’s my experience that the reclusive types keep their valuables close at hand. They’re pathological about it in some cases.”

  Montbard caught the inference. He turned to address Senegal. “Give us the female perspective. If you had to hide illegal videotapes potentially worth millions of pounds—or the Midnight Star—would you choose a trusted bank and lock everything away in a safe-deposit box?”

  Firth said, “Of course not. That’s not a female insight, it’s simply prudent. A safe-deposit box can be searched or sealed if authorities get interested. I’d want my best jewelry close at hand so I could use it when needed, and also to keep an eye on it. The same would be true with anything else of great value. A first-rate safe, possibly . . . or some secret cubbyhole that only I knew about.”

  “Ford?”

  “I agree. Someplace secure, but easily accessible.”

  “Exactly. There you have it. I think the videos are up there. Toussaint uses a form of psychological warfare to scare off intruders—obeah spells and legends, that sort of thing. Locals are terrified of the place. They believe she uses those flesh-eating monsters I mentioned to patrol the area.”

  “That wouldn’t stop you.”

  “Oh, but flesh monsters did stop me—because it’s true, in a way. I tried to reconnoiter the place a few nights ago, and her monsters damn near got me. I was just telling Senny about it, wasn’t I, dear?”

  Firth had recovered her aloofness along with her poise. The woman enjoyed my reaction when she replied. “Yes, a terrifying story. Dodged yet another bullet, Hooker did. That’s why I’m so relieved you’ll be with him tonight, Dr. Ford—when he goes back.”

  Irritated, Montbard snapped, “Senny!” as I asked, “When he goes back where?”

  “Maybe I was presuming too much, old sweat,” Sir James said. “But I thought I was on safe ground since we’re working together now.” He caught Firth’s eye. “That is our decision, isn’t it?”

  The woman responded with a cool nod.

  “Good. I took it for granted you’d be willing to pop over and have a look around the monastery. We can take your boat or mine—doesn’t matter. There’s a lot to do if you plan on checking into the retreat tomorrow: establish a communication channel, locate escape routes—the regular drill. Breaching security in a place like that is a bit of a load for one man. For the two of us, though, it should be easy sledding.”

  I said, “I’m not even positive I have a reservation . . . and I was told it was couples only, unless I get special permission—which is unlikely.”

  Montbard reached and tapped his teacup against Firth’s empty coffee cup. “Not a problem. The three of us are on the same team now. Right, Senny, dear?”

  21

  AT SUNSET, Sir James and I were sitting in my skiff off Piton Lolo, Saint Arc’s leeward peak, looking up at the monastery and attached lodge—a stony geometric surrounded by rain forest, a quarter mile above the sea. Isabelle Toussaint’s estate was a spattering of white, hidden by trees.

  “Do you see how that cloud appears to cling to the top of the peak?” he asked.

  Gray cumulus had drifted into the mountain, then flattened as if pinned to the apex. The leeward edge of the cloud angled skyward, sculpted by thermals.

  He continued, “Most peaks in the area are arid desert, but this one catches clouds for some reason. That’s why the rain for
est is so dense. There are species of plants and orchids up there still not cataloged by science, or so I’ve heard. Fascinating spot. Always wanted to have a look around.”

  I got the impression that, sooner or later, Montbard would’ve found some excuse to explore the place, to hell with the hazards.

  By dark, I was sure of it. We were working our way up the incline, halfway through the forest, when we came to a chain-link fence. Spaced along the fence every few hundred yards were signs in Creole and English.

  DANGER!

  KEEP OUT!

  There were also obeah fetishes, feathers and bone—another form of warning.

  It was 7:40 p.m.

  Montbard touched his walking stick to the fence, then used the back of his hand—it wasn’t electrified. “I didn’t have a problem getting over the other night,” he said, voice low, “but that was the opposite side of the peak where there’s a footpath. Never hurts to double-check.”

  I was leaning against a tree, pissing, as he added, “I wasn’t joking about nearly being eaten, by the way.”

  I said, “You mentioned the dogs.”

  “Hounds, I’d call them. Real monsters. They were nipping at my bloody heels as I vaulted the fence—a damned narrow squeak. I ripped a good pair of trousers. Found out later the woman’s staff keeps Brazilian mastiffs. Do you know the breed?”

  I said, “No, but if they’re anything like the dog that chased me last night, I think we can deal with it.”

  “I wish I could pretend they’re the same, but these are very different animals, indeed.”

  Brazilian mastiffs, he said, were a mix of bull mastiffs, bloodhounds, and South American jaguar hounds. They had the size and strength to lock on to a steer’s nose and drag it to the ground.

  “I did a bit of research afterward, and was almost sorry I did. Adult males stand seven feet tall on their hind legs—only weigh eight stone, but pure muscle, with the temperament of snakes. At pedigree shows, the beasts are disqualified if they don’t try to attack the blasted judge.”

  I was calculating in my head. “A little over a hundred pounds?”

  “That’s right. There aren’t many of them in the world—good thing, too.”

  I zipped and turned. “Then why are we doing this? I don’t want to have to kill a dog for doing its job. I also don’t want to be mauled.”

  Sir James said, “We should be all right. Last time I tried this, it was three in the morning. Since then, I’ve pieced together the retreat’s schedule. It’s strictly forbidden for guests to exit the monastery walls after eleven. And someone who should know told me the forest is dangerous only after midnight. In other words—” He held his Rolex to his eye. “—we have a window of three to four hours before they lock the doors and loose the dogs.”

  The man was facing the fence, standing on tiptoes and using the walking stick to lower his backpack as I asked, “The person you spoke with— I assume he works at the retreat.”

  “No. Too risky, don’t you think, tipping your hand by chatting up the hired help?”

  “Was it Lucien?” Montbard had introduced me to the old man that afternoon. We’d listened to him talk about obeah.

  “No. Lucien hasn’t been to the monastery in years. You heard him— he’s terrified of the place. The man who gave me the information—” Montbard paused, hands on the top of the fence. “—is a beggar. Talked to him last week. One of those poor chaps I see too often on Saint Arc. No legs, missing an eye, so he scoots around on a mechanic’s dolly. From the looks of him, he doesn’t have many days left. Too bad. Very nice chap, but broken, of course.”

  Montbard climbed the fence, dropped to the other side, then continued, whispering.

  “The fellow made extra money poaching orchids near the monastery, but stayed too late one night. Dogs caught him. Of course, he claimed that obeah devils attacked him—there’s cachet in that. But we’re having none of that nonsense. It’s all about timing, you see?”

  I asked, “Did the man hunt orchids on weekends?” Today was Monday, four days until Shay’s deadline.

  “What in blazes does it matter?”

  “Weekend schedules and weekday schedules vary. Maybe they let the dogs out earlier on weekdays.”

  “Didn’t think to ask—and it’s too late now. I heard the poor sot was taken off to the hospital. But we can’t expect to have every t crossed and every i dotted in our trade, now can we?” Montbard shouldered his backpack, then retrieved his walking stick. “Right. Over you go, Ford. You’re the new La’Ja’bless, according to Lucien. The hounds won’t bother a fellow demon.”

  Lah-zjay-blass, the old man had pronounced it. He’d said the word with a reverence that was becoming familiar, and softly as if he were afraid the trees would overhear.

  "THE CREATURE, he attack three mens jes last night over to Saint Arc,” Lucien had told us, delighted to have news to share with visitors. “The creature, he hurt one fella purty bad. It because that fella were disrespectful, and speak a profanity regarding the spirits. But all them men’s lucky, in my opinion, ’cause the La’Ja’bless got the power to do much worse than break a fella’s ribs.”

  I didn’t make the connection until I noticed Sir James looking at me, waiting to confirm the significance with a slight smile.

  “Three local men, Lucien?”

  “That right. Boy who bring me my coffee, he tol’ me this mornin’. He down to the wharf and hear the fishermens talkin’. The La’Ja’bless, he quick to punish. But that fella very fortunate he only in hospital, not the grave.”

  The La’Ja’bless was a night creature that could assume different forms. Sometimes he was a wolf or a cat—“If those things cross the road in front of you at night, it the creature, an’ you smart to run, man!”

  More often, though, the La’Ja’bless was half man, half horse . . . or a faceless man dressed in black.

  “Las’ night, the creature be a man—all black but for the eye in the center part his head. It a green eye that burn like fire, the fishermens sayin’. That fella in hospital? He never be disrespectful again, that much I know!”

  We had stood in the shade of a tamarind tree, listening to Lucien tell his stories while chickens scratched in a neighbor’s garden. There was a scarecrow made of sticks and a calabash gourd, a faded red scarf over its face, like a bandit.

  Lucien, I discovered, was father of the subdued man who’d served our breakfast, Rafick. It was Rafick who drove us to the old man’s cottage on the outskirts of Soufrier and encouraged him to talk freely in front of Senegal, a woman, and me, a stranger.

  Before Sir James asked the first question, though, Rafick was gone— a true believer who’d done his duty, but who wanted no part in discussing obeah.

  Senegal appeared surprised that I jotted key words in my notebook as the old man talked.

  Gajé: Practitioner of witchcraft

  Zanbi (Zombie?): Creature who rises from grave to do evil

  Dragon Tooth: Volcano

  Anansi Noir: Black spider whose supernatural power is equal to a snake’s

  Bolonm: Tiny person, born from a chicken’s egg, who eats flesh

  Maji Noir: Male spirit who roams the night, preying on women walking alone

  Maji Blanc: Female spirit who appears as a beautiful woman dressed in white and has sex with men who are asleep or drunk. Uses her fingernails on their backs and genitals as her calling card

  Flirting, Lucien had said to Senegal, “You would make a mos’ lovely Maji Blanc. Not a evil spirit, a’course, but the pleasuring type. Why you not allow this gen’lman buy you a pretty white dress, ’stead of wearin’ them pants?”

  Senegal let him see she was flattered, even though the subject made her uncomfortable. “I’d rather have a white dress from you, Lucien. I’ll come back and model it.”

  “Oh my, I like that! The Maji Blanc visit me several times when I were a young man. What you think my wife do when she see them scratches? She take garlic and rub it. Garlic burn when you been sc
ratched by the Maji Blanc, tha’s how you know it was a spirit woman.”

  The old man tilted his head skyward and laughed, showing freckles on his cinnamon skin, and eyes that were milky blue. “I tell you true now—sometimes the garlic don’t burn so bad, but I yell like fire, anyway!”

  He stopped laughing when Montbard asked about the monastery on Piton Lolo.

  “That a dragon tooth long ’go. It stick out the ocean so high it snag clouds. That why it a dark place where the wind got a chill, and it have washerwoman rain all the time. It a fine spot for orchids, but it bad for peoples.

  “In back times, it were a godly place for monks. But them monks all die sudden of fever. By the time they found, the birds been feedin’ and carried they spirits away. Left nothing but they robes.

  “The robes still up there to this day! I tell you ’cause I know it true. One night, I seen it with me own eyes, them empty robes comin’ down the mountain, candles for faces. Trottin’ alongside was a wild pack of mal vú chien. Them animals glowed, so I knew they was demons . . . on fire with bawé yo.”

  I wrote in my notebook:

  Mal vú chien: Demon dogs; hounds from hell

  “Any wonder the islanders stay away from the monastery?” Sir James had said as we drove away. “Madame Toussaint takes pains to ensure her privacy.”

  He wasn’t talking only about the mythical dogs. According to Lucien, worse things awaited people who ventured onto the mountain at night.

  “Some say the real Maji Blanc live up there now,” Lucien had told us, “but I seen that Madame Toussaint. She were wearin’ black, not white. I think she invented that tale, make peoples think she become beautiful at midnight. But I feel she a vitch, you ask my opinion. Obayifo, or a sukkoy-uan, that what we old people calls her.”