Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  “What?”

  “It’s not as mad as you think. A well-dressed Englishman is accepted without suspicion at most social functions, no matter the circumstance. Fortunately, we are also dependably forgettable. To the uninitiated, we all sound alike, you know.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, I’ve heard it’s true.”

  “I’m not talking about your accent—”

  “I know, I know.” There was a sly smile in his voice. “Shadow the woman in white. Stay close. You suggested we create an emergency? I have something in mind.”

  Now he was standing and taking off his shooting jacket. He folded it, put it into his bag, then surprised me by taking out a stiletto, which he fitted behind the shoulder holster that held his Walther PPK.

  I said, “You plan on stabbing someone?” as he reached into his bag again. I watched him produce a white dinner jacket, which he slipped into as if standing in front of a mirror.

  “I certainly hope not; I had this tailored in Hanoi. Pure silk, you know. Bugger of a job to get stains out. Ford?—” He was straightening the jacket’s lapels now. “—would you mind very much staying on post until ten forty-five? A fifteen-minute lead on a Brazilian mastiff is more than enough—even if you are slightly out of training. I’ll pull stakes no later than ten fifty-five. Or thereabouts.”

  I said, “But before we make any decisions, there’s something you need to know—the actress isn’t an actress.”

  I told him about Beryl. When I’d finished, he gave the situation some thought before saying, “That gorgeous woman is here posing as your fiancé?”

  “I have no idea. I mentioned the place in a phone message, that’s all. She’s . . . a resourceful woman.”

  “That may make it a bit sticky for our girl Senegal, don’t you think?”

  “For all of us. Maybe worse for Beryl if Ritchie and Clovis work here. She wants revenge.”

  “When you say revenge, you mean—”

  “I’m not sure. If she had access to a weapon, violence maybe. Beryl’s motivated. She has more reason than most.”

  “I shouldn’t ask any particulars, I gather.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But do you really think she would—”

  “I wouldn’t be shocked. She’s not as even-tempered as Senegal.”

  “Really. Part angel, part lioness, eh?” Montbard liked that. “What a splendid creature—you can tell me more about her later. But I think Lady Beryl is actually in less danger here among the enemy, so to speak. Those two cretins won’t dare lay a hand on her while she’s a guest. And it’s all the more reason for me to slip down and mingle.”

  “No way. I’m not leaving you. Let’s drop the stiff-upper-lip stuff, please.”

  “Don’t be silly! This is a perfect opportunity to discover where the old girl keeps her treasures. Stick with Madame Toussaint. Keep your eyes open. If I’m not back at the boat by midnight, it simply means I’ve taken a different route down the mountain. Return to Saint Lucia without me.”

  “But where will you—”

  “My God, man! This won’t be the first time I’ve grabbed a bit of kip without a roof over my head. I’ll take the morning ferry and meet you for breakfast at Jade Mountain. The buffet’s excellent. Say, ten-ish? Have a Bloody Mary waiting, won’t you?”

  I was rubbing my forehead, annoyed.

  “Oh . . . a couple of details.” He was putting a fountain pen in his pocket, next a lighter. “The moment we split up, night vision is required. I have my little infrared. You have your lovely little Triad flashlight. No one will be the wiser. Swing the light side to side, it will mean stand fast, something interesting may happen. Circular motion means regroup immediately. Rapid series of dashes means danger approaching, run. Got that?”

  He added, “And remember to keep your eye open for the Misericord. A secure little structure where monks were punished—it would fit with Madame Toussaint’s psychological profile.”

  I said, “Someone’s compiled a profile?”

  “Several dozen pages.”

  “A professional?”

  “I’d like to think so. I already knew a fair bit about Toussaint because of the monastery, but I really went to work on it when Senegal told me about her problem. Ample time to put together a decent profile.” Then he added, “You have no idea who I am, do you, old boy?” He said it as if he found me entertaining.

  I said, “No . . . but I’m starting to get the picture. James? Hey . . . Hooker.”

  He was already moving down the hill, straightening his jacket, using fingers to neaten his silver hair. When he got to the fence, I watched him hide his bag behind a tree, then reach for something growing near a low limb. An orchid.

  Sir James inserted the flower into his lapel. He patted it in place before scaling the fence.

  25

  I WAS STRADDLING a tree limb outside Isabelle Toussaint’s château when I heard the man scream. It was the frantic, soprano wail of someone who was falling . . . or being mauled.

  Sir James?

  Had to be, although it was impossible to identify the voice. It was an unearthly bawling mixed with what resembled the rumble of a distant waterfall.

  No . . . not a waterfall. It was the rumble of growling dogs.

  Only five minutes earlier I’d been lying belly-down on the stone wall that enclosed the woman’s estate, when the power went out. Not just her house—the entire property, lodge and monastery included. A moment later, emergency lights blinked on. Frail blue beams in the darkness. Simultaneously, I heard a warbling siren, like a police car in an old French film. A fire alarm or a burglar alarm.

  The Englishman had wasted no time.

  I’d been wearing the night-vision monocular, as instructed. From a forested area unexpectedly close to the house, an infrared flashlight painted horizontal streaks on trees. Montbard’s signal: Stand fast, something’s going to happen.

  I no longer doubted the man, but I wasn’t in position.

  I’d dropped over the wall and jogged toward the rear of the house. The area was landscaped with hedges, like an old English garden. A maze of hedges, literally. Ficus trees cut low, roots like bars, so it was impossible to bust through the hedge when I came to a dead end. I encountered several dead ends. Maddening.

  It took a couple tries before I exited into a garden behind the château. The château was built over a wedge of stone ruins that disappeared into the side of the mountain like a storm cellar. There was a terrace, a lily pond, a marble statue of Saint Francis, trees weighted with moss, bromeliads, orchids. One of the trees had limbs low enough to climb, and I did. Pulled myself up as a light came on inside the house. Someone had struck a match to an oil lamp.

  It was Isabelle Toussaint. She was a ghostly figure, carrying the lamp in both hands as she glided through the house. The interior was over-furnished, like a museum storeroom. I could see tapestries and ornate furniture and paintings in heavy frames. There were religious icons on every wall. Crosses . . . a life-sized carving of Christ in agony. It was like watching a series of TV screens as the woman disappeared, then reappeared inside glowing windows and glassed French doors.

  The alarm was still warbling. Toussaint looked concerned—turning her head to listen, sniffing the distant wood smoke, touching a hand to her necklace—but in control. Apparently, power outages were common on the mountain. The alarm, though, troubled her.

  She had removed her hood. I watched her lean over the lamp to light a thin black cheroot, smoking unself-consciously as she crossed into the kitchen where there were skillets and pots suspended on hooks above a stainless gas stove. Beyond the refrigerator was a narrow staircase—the servant’s back steps to the second floor. On the wall next to the staircase was an oversized painting: an infant’s white crib in a black room. Bizarre.

  The woman poured a glass of wine, sniffed the air once again, testing for fire despite her cigarette. Once again, she touched fingers to the Midnight Star s
apphire . . . then turned toward the window, startled, because of a sudden, piercing sound outside. The screaming had begun.

  It was a man’s voice, shrill . . . vocal cords tearing as terror peaked. After several seconds, the bawling transitioned into a series of ragged shrieks. Terror had become pain.

  "Godohgodohgod ... HELP MEEEEEEEE!”

  The confusing sound of a waterfall became the snarling, clacking chorus of dogs dragging down prey. I kept telling myself it wasn’t Sir James’s voice. But it was coming from the forested area where he’d last used the infrared to signal. Who else could it be?

  “Noooooo . .. NO!”

  When horror is converted into childlike cries, panic becomes transmittable.

  You have a gun, James . . .goddamn it, pull your gun!

  I felt the panic . . . so did Isabelle Toussaint. I started down the tree, fixated on the source of the screams, but a peripheral part of my brain noted that the woman was also reacting. She was removing her necklace as she hurried toward the back staircase. I saw her lean . . . guessed she was reaching for something out of my view. Then . . . as if on rollers, the middle section of steps opened upward like a hatch.

  Toussaint returned for the oil lamp, then crossed again to the hidden compartment. No . . . it wasn’t just a compartment, it was a second stairway that descended into a basement.

  The château had been built over stone ruins. The ruins apparently extended underground, into the mountainside. I watched the woman disappear down the steps into an unseen chamber. As she pulled the hatch closed, the man’s screams were fading into a silence of screaming frogs and rain-forest insects.

  I now knew where Toussaint kept her valuables. But it had cost James Montbard dearly. Maybe his life.

  I DROPPED FROM THE TREE and ran toward the ficus maze, suddenly furious at myself for not using reflective tape to mark an exit route. A stupid oversight. I didn’t have time to waste on more dead ends—I had to find the Englishman.

  To my right, a sliding gate opened. Two men with flashlights appeared. The lights scanned the garden terrace I’d just left . . . then swept toward me.

  The men didn’t see me. But the dogs that followed them into the garden did. I would’ve known even if I wasn’t wearing night vision. The dogs had fluorescent collars, bright as glow sticks. The collars illuminated their jowls and bright, black eyes—two gigantic Brazilian mastiffs.

  I ducked into the maze, my speed fueled by fear. Seconds later, the dogs skidded into the hedgerow behind me. I could hear their pounding weight and their salivary growling. Make a wrong turn, hit a dead end, the dogs would be on me. Did it matter? They were going to catch me, anyway.

  Ahead were three corridors to choose from, none much wider than my shoulders. I took the opening to the left. There was a sharp right turn, then a sharp left. In the monocular’s green light, the hedge walls appeared black, a foot higher than my head. It seemed familiar. But the dogs were closing, tracking me by scent—hopefully. After all the wrong turns I’d made earlier, my scent was everywhere. Maybe they’d get confused.

  Two more openings appeared. I chose the inner corridor, running as hard as I could until the maze began to narrow. The other dead ends had narrowed in the same way.

  Shit.

  As I slowed, I reached to pull the Colt from the holster tucked into the back of my pants . . . then made another mistake—I fumbled the gun and dropped it. Had to stop, retrace my steps, then kneel to retrieve it. Too late, and I knew it—the dogs were waiting.

  As I knelt, a wolfish rumble vibrated near my ear. Both dogs were somewhere in the shadows, so close I could smell them. Because I’d stopped, they’d stopped—pack mentality—and now they were waiting for me to move. I’d found the gun. Had it in my right hand. I remained motionless for several seconds, then slowly raised my head.

  I expected to be nose to nose with the mastiffs . . . but the hedgerow was empty. Where the hell were they?

  I stood . . . then fell backward as a dog lunged at me from above. The animal looked demonic with its glowing collar, straining to get over the hedge. It was joined by the second dog. Their growling was a sustained howl punctuated by snapping teeth. Sir James had said that Brazilian mastiffs were seven feet tall on their hind legs. It was not an exaggeration.

  I’d gotten lucky. The dogs had followed my scent into a parallel corridor, one of the dead ends I’d hit earlier. The corridor I’d chosen had narrowed, but I could see that it opened just ahead.

  I held the gun ready as I backed away, expecting the dogs to claw their way over the hedge. But each time they tried, the top of the hedge separated beneath their weight, and funneled them into a tangle of ficus roots. From the distance, I could hear one of the men whistling for the dogs. Maybe he thought they’d treed an animal. He would be here soon.

  I turned. I ran. I found the trail we’d marked with reflective tape—the shortest route down the mountain. I barely slowed when I got to the chain-link fence. Didn’t look back until I’d vaulted over.

  IN AN AREA cloaked by elephant-ear leaves, I stopped. Stayed hidden there until I’d caught my breath in the leaning-rest position—hands on knees, head down. I came close to vomiting. My legs were shaking, and a schematic of the back on my brain pulsed inside my eyes. It wasn’t just because of my close call with the dogs. The man’s screams were still banging around in my head. Haunting—as was the guilt I felt for leaving James Montbard behind.

  I felt sick. Stood there and argued with myself about returning to the spa compound. But what could I do for him now? Couldn’t avoid the obvious question: Was it true I couldn’t help? Or was I afraid to go back over the fence?

  Afraid. Yes, I was afraid—an honest admission. But it was also true that if the screams I’d heard were Sir James, he was beyond my help. Even if he were alive, the compound would be on full alert. An anonymous call to the island police was my best option. Contrive some lie to get an ambulance and a couple of nosy cops to have a look around the spa.

  It was quarter after eleven. I still had to cross four miles of open ocean in an eighteen-foot boat. But first I had to get to a pay phone. Or . . . I could try to raise the local water cops on the handheld VHF radio I’d left on the Maverick. That would be faster. No chance of caller ID giving away my location, either.

  I started downhill, jogging when I could, walking when the trail narrowed. People who are obsessive by nature are commonly the victims of their own cyclic thought patterns. Their brains function like a compass needle, swinging inevitably back to whatever it is they are trying to put out of their mind. I am obsessive. To muffle the screams ringing in my head, I thought about Senegal Firth. What would I tell her?

  The decision wasn’t as time-consuming as I wanted it to be. Long ago, in a faraway jungle, a buddy and I dulled our own fears by constructing a series of brave maxims. Maxims are distilled truths, orderly beacons. In our violent world, they reminded us that the existential has an orderly counterpart. One of the maxims we hammered out was this: When telling the truth is the most difficult choice, it is almost always the right choice.

  I would tell Senegal the truth, but an amended truth to spare her pain. It would be after midnight by the time I got to Saint Lucia. I would hike up the steps to James Montbard’s home and bang on the door. Get it over with. She deserved to know.

  The boat was hidden in a tidal creek in a tunnel of mangroves. The creek was a hundred yards off a gravel road that circled the mountain, jungle on one side, sea on the other. I’d marked the place by tying reflective tape in the trees.

  When I got to the road, I stowed the night-vision monocular and jogged the last quarter mile in darkness. There was no sense of relief that I’d made it off the mountain, but felt no pleasure in the thought of getting in the boat and pointing seaward. Instead, I felt flat and empty, as if the dogs, the screams, the jungle had punctured my spirit and drained me of purpose.

  It is remarkable how quickly we recover when good fortune displaces misfortune—and it always does
, sooner or later.

  On this night, it was sooner.

  When I was close enough to spot the tape, I took out the infrared flashlight, fitted the night-vision harness over my right eye, and flipped the switch. Instantly, shadows were illuminated . . . but there was another source of light, too. An unexpected source.

  In the mangrove thicket where the boat was hidden, an infrared light was painting slow circles on the tree canopy. It wasn’t my infrared light. It wasn’t me who was flashing Montbard’s signal to regroup.

  I ran toward the boat. Unholstered my pistol just in case, but didn’t bother trying to cover the sound of me crashing through the mangroves. Sir James was lighting his pipe when I broke through the trees.

  “About time, old boy,” he said calmly. “I was beginning to worry dogs had caught more than one trespasser tonight. Poor bastard—up there poaching orchids. You heard?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound a bit shaken.”

  “I am. I thought it was you.”

  “Could’ve been. Terrible way to go. But you would have heard at least one shot—better by my own bullet than the indignity of being ripped apart by dogs. It was a local boy, barely out of his teens. Nothing I could do.”

  “A boy?”

  “Sadly, yes. Athletic-looking lad; poor family, judging from his rags.” For the first time, Montbard sounded like a weary seventy-year-old man.

  He had used the VHF radio, he added, and told harbor patrol that a wealthy tourist had been attacked, and might still be alive. There was a better chance they’d respond if they believed it was a tourist.

  I untied the boat, started the engine. We were idling into the slow lift and fall of a trade-wind sea before I said, “I don’t know about you, but I could use one of your midnight teas.”

  Montbard tapped his pipe empty before putting it in the pocket of his dinner jacket. “Right you are. A stiff whiskey or two’s just the thing.”