Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

As I began to reply, she held up a hand. “All I’m saying is watch yourself. Don’t ever go walking outside the monastery walls after midnight. Hear? Ever. And take care what you say and do, especially around the staff.”

  “The White Lady? Or do you mean the Maji Blanc?”

  Norma’s eyes burrowed into mine. “How’d you find out that name?”

  “I can’t remember. I always forget who gives me information—probably because of all the toxins in my body.”

  I saw Norma ready to smile, but not quite there. I reached and squeezed her hand. “The White Lady’s no lady, Norma. But you are. Thanks for the advice. What would happen if she knew you’d warned me?”

  Norma gave a weary shrug—Who cares?—before replying, “I’d lose my job and a place to live. That’s all. And I’m going to be leaving soon, anyway.”

  “Quitting?”

  “In a way.”

  “I didn’t know the staff lived on the grounds.”

  “Not all of us. It’s a seniority deal. You come by helicopter, so you wouldn’t’ve seen them, but there’re cabins down the mountain, maybe a quarter mile by road. I’ve got a pretty nice place, set off by itself. I like it. Got it fixed up nice. Getting fired and losing that cabin—that’s the worst they could do to me.”

  Norma was wrong.

  28

  BERYL TOLD ME, “Corey’s dead. She died Sunday morning, the day after you left. The doctors aren’t sure what happened, an aneurism, maybe.”

  We were standing in a closet so cramped that my lips were next to her ear. Candlelight bounced shadows around the adjoining room, showing a stone floor and Beryl’s bed, where the pillow, the mattress, were still imprinted with her weight.

  I whispered, “Dead?”

  “I know . . . unbelievable. When she was in intensive care, they think one of the procedures maybe caused a blood clot. She was fine, sitting up, talking . . . then she said something about a pain in her head, and closed her eyes. That was it. She never woke up. I’m still in shock. Damn it, I won’t let them get away with it.”

  Beryl didn’t sound in shock. She sounded cold, in control—a woman who was experienced at concealing rage. But she didn’t bother hiding her impatience with me.

  “The party boys are responsible—and whoever took the video. From your phone message, I expected to find them working here. So where are they?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I’ve seen them, but it wasn’t here.”

  “Then where? Why come to this freaky place if it wasn’t to deal with those three? I think you’re wasting my time.”

  This was the same woman who’d come into the lab wearing a towel, eyes smoky as the candlelight that now illuminated her nose and eyes in a flickering triangle. Cold voice, cold eyes. Finally, I was meeting the Ice Queen.

  I said, “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Damn right it’s more complicated—as of Sunday morning. They killed Corey the same as using a gun. And she didn’t do anything—not compared to the rest of us. But they blackmailed her anyway, and she’s dead. If we don’t pay up by Friday, they’ll try to destroy my life, too. And Liz’s life. Shay’s already such an emotional wreck, I’m worried she might be next.”

  The first thing Beryl had told me was that Shay’s wedding had been postponed for two weeks, then gave me the bad news about Corey, when I asked, “Why?”

  The funeral was on Friday—the day of the rehearsal dinner. It had to be the all-time worst week in Shay’s life.

  I put my hands on Beryl’s shoulders and squeezed, trying to reassure her. Trapezius muscles, beneath pale skin, felt like rope left too long in the sun. When my fingers began exploring for knots, she shrugged my hands away, and said, “Those bastards. We have to find them. I’m going to find them.”

  I said, “Take it easy. I’m working on it.”

  “You’ve had three days to work on it. We’re running out of time.”

  In more ways than Beryl realized. It was nearly midnight.

  AN HOUR EARLIER, for the benefit of the hidden camera, I’d made a show of getting ready for bed. The only thing I’d brought to read was the article Sir James had given me on the Knights Templar. I took it from my bag, adjusted the reading lamp, and lay on the bed.

  The Knights Templar was a fraternity of warrior monks founded in 1118 by André de Montbard and Hugh de Payen. These two knights, along with seven companions, presented themselves to Godfroi de Bouillon, ruler of Jerusalem . . .

  I paused to clean my glasses. André de Montbard? If James Montbard was a descendant, how many generations separated the two men? Twenty-five? Thirty? In the U.S., the time span was incomprehensible. In Great Britain, ancestral records and properties might date back even farther.

  It was their intention, they told the monarch, to organize an order of able monks to protect pilgrims traveling to Jerusalem—the Knights Templar. Because the Templars took sacred oaths of honesty, chastity, and loyalty, they soon became the trusted guardians of travelers to the Holy Land, and also the world’s first international bankers. They accumulated enormous wealth during the Crusades.

  By the 1300s, the Templars controlled more wealth and land than most kingdoms, and they had the largest sailing fleet in the world. There is evidence the Templars were already doing trade in the Americas.

  When the Templars began to exceed the Vatican’s power, Pope Clement V ordered all members arrested. Some were burned at the stake, but most escaped, preserving their order, and their secrets, by founding a new secret fraternity, the Freemasons.

  The Templar sailing fleet disappeared, as did their vast treasure holdings, which included artifacts from the Holy Land taken as spoils of war.

  Some historians believe they loaded their vessels and sailed west toward the land they had discovered two hundred years before Columbus . . .

  No wonder Sir James Montbard, the Freemason and amateur archaeologist, wanted to have a look around the monastery. Lots of linkage. But it had the fantasy flavor of a conspiracy theory. If I ever meet more than three people who can keep a secret, I’ll give conspiracy theories serious consideration.

  Interesting, but I had things to do.

  Before turning out the reading lamp, I took a sleepy look around my room, then tossed a shirt over the clock radio, covering the miniature lens. I spent the next twenty minutes in the dark, expecting spa employees to arrive with an excuse to check the room.

  Nothing.

  I got dressed, poked my head outside, then took a few things from the pack I’d hidden overhead in the gallery bay. Among them was the little Uniden handheld VHF, which I clipped to my belt. Montbard said he would attempt radio contact at 6 p.m., 9 p.m., and midnight, but I hadn’t been able to risk retrieving the VHF until now.

  By 11:30, I was working my way through shadows to the opposite cloister, jumpy as hell, spooking at every sound. It was supposed to be safe inside the monastery walls. Even so, I expected dogs to come tumbling out of the darkness.

  The three fingers Beryl had flashed earlier—the meaning had popped into my head as I suffered through a sauna treatment, sweating imaginary toxins I hadn’t allowed Norma to purge.

  “The guest rooms are numbered,” Norma had told me. “It’s one-two-three simple.”

  Three.

  I was in Room 36, Senegal was in 7. Beryl was telling me her room number—3. Obvious, in hindsight, as most puzzles are.

  NOW BERYL AND I were huddled in her closet, out of the range of the lens hidden in the smoke alarm—a useless precaution if someone had been monitoring the place when Beryl opened the door wide, saying, “Doc?” and I stepped into room.

  Any second, I expected to hear pounding at the door.

  Yes, nearly midnight, and we were running out of time.

  I touched my cheek to Beryl’s cheek, and whispered, “You’re obsessing on the three guys, but it’s more complicated than you think. Trust me, I’ll do something if there’s an opportunity. I’m more concerned about you. We have to get you o
ff this mountain. Soon. They’re already suspicious.”

  "Who?”

  “Everyone, including the woman who owns the place. She’s the blackmailer. You don’t think she knows who she’s blackmailing, for Christ’s sake? The staff’s scared shitless of her. Think about that.”

  Beryl was too angry to think about it. “The woman with the bizarre robes, the hood, all the makeup? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. I’m convinced.”

  “Isabelle? I’ve met her four or five times—at least twice at the trade show in Paris. There’s nothing scary about Isabelle—unless you’re afraid of dyke nuns. Maybe that’s your problem.”

  “Afraid of nuns?”

  “You tell me. Afraid of the party boys, I can understand. If you don’t have the balls for confrontation, okay. But afraid of a middle-aged woman who dresses like Madonna? I think Shay chose the wrong man for the job. The three who came to the beach cottage that night, they’re the blackmailers. If you’re afraid of them, just admit it.”

  I took a breath and released it slowly, letting Beryl know that my patience had its limits. Some people strike out at anyone and everything when they’re angry. Beryl was in attack mode.

  “I wasted an entire day walking around this nuthouse with people in robes. Now you tell me a woman who grows orchids and markets face cream is the one who took the video. Do you really think Isabelle sent those sick e-mails? That she gets her rocks off by filming people screwing? Please.”

  “You haven’t done the research, Beryl. I have.”

  “Research? My God—you really are just a biologist, aren’t you? The rumors about you being a dangerous character—a drug smuggler, a government agent, whatever—what a laugh. Shay was feeding us a bunch of bullshit. How could I . . . how could anyone’ve believed that a guy who looks like a science teacher is dangerous?”

  “I never asked anyone to believe anything.”

  “Really? I’m not so sure. Your secret trips, the mysterious men who come to the lab—did you invent those stories? Or did Shay? She’s good at making up stories, I know.”

  I had just checked my watch but now, instead of replying, I looked at it again. 12:18 a.m. Once again, I’d missed the radio appointment with Sir James. Outside, thunder rumbled through the forest canopy. There was a whistle of gusting wind. I listened until I’d confirmed it was the sound of a squall approaching, not the distant howling of dogs.

  I said, “We can talk about your best friend, Shay, another time. Let’s concentrate on you. You can’t spend another night here. It’s too dangerous. I know a man who owns an estate on Saint Lucia. You can stay there until you catch a flight out.”

  Beryl groaned—Here we go again. “I am not leaving this island. If I go anywhere, it’ll be to the beach house where we were filmed.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s a rental. You can’t just show up.”

  “You’re so full of wisdom, Doc. You’re also full of something else. I called and gave the realtor a credit card Sunday after I found out about Corey. I rented the place through Saturday. I’ll bet anything those jerks are still hanging out at the resort, like the night they showed up. They’re stalkers. I know the type. Pretty girls all alone, they can’t resist. It’s what they do.”

  I said, “Pretty girls?”

  “Shay’s as mad as I am. I told you the wedding was postponed for three weeks. The Italian guy from the marina, Eddie, may fly her down to join me.”

  “Eddie?”

  “You’re the one who told me he’s a pilot.”

  “First you said the wedding was postponed for two weeks. Now you say three weeks. Which is it?”

  “I told you three weeks. Your hearing must be going, too.”

  I was sure she’d said two weeks, but there was no point in arguing. I asked, “What will the pretty girls do if the men who assaulted you show up?”

  “That’s something I’ve had a lot of time to think about,” Beryl replied in an aloof, impatient way that was becoming familiar. “Make them pay for what they’ve done—isn’t that justice? We’ll deal with them. Don’t worry.”

  Eerie, the way she said that. Like it was something she’d been thinking about for years.

  THE SOUND TRACK I’d heard in the spa was now being piped into Beryl’s room. The lulling percussion of ocean waves . . . the faint yip and moan of seabirds in the background.

  Somewhere, someone had hit a switch. I wondered if there were speakers in all the rooms. Speakers can also be microphones.

  I waited in the closet while Beryl peeked outside to see if anyone was watching, then she moved around the room and blew out all but one candle. Her white nightgown became translucent when she picked up the candle. As she walked toward me, I wanted to look away but couldn’t.

  “Hey . . . are you okay? Why don’t you answer me?” Beryl stood at the closet entrance, whispering, holding the candle at breast level, a glass of something in her other hand.

  I said, “What . . . ? Sorry . . . my mind was on something else.”

  “I was talking about the white noise from those speakers. I asked if they played it in the spa when you went through that purification business. Beach sounds, crashing waves. Same thing last night, all night long. It was irritating at first . . . but then it got so I liked it. I went to sleep, finally, but I had weird dreams.” She sipped from the glass. “Want some? Herbal tea.”

  “No. How were they weird?”

  “The dreams? Don’t ask. It’s personal. I’ll just say they were . . . unusual.”

  I said, “Oh,” with no idea what she meant. At least she was less combative. I looked at the smoke alarm wired next to the ceiling fan. “I’ve got to go.”

  She put the glass on a table and touched her fingers to my chest. “Doc?”

  “Beryl?”

  “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. I’ve been furious for the last three days, and I was venting. Sorry. I don’t really believe you invented stories. And I don’t think you’re a coward. It’s just that . . . well, I think maybe I expected too much from you.”

  “Not unusual. I do it all the time—to myself.”

  She laid a light hand on my arm and patted me the way people do when they are trying to comfort themselves. “You’re an intelligent guy, I should respect that. If you think it’s not safe, I’ll leave. But first, I’ll arrange a meeting, and ask Isabelle a few questions. I won’t mention we know each other. Maybe start out like I’m asking for advice. ‘My girlfriends and I did something foolish, do you have any influence with the local police?’ Like that. If she gets tricky, if she lies to me, I’ll know.”

  “Don’t do that. Please.”

  “How else are we going to find out?”

  “I told you: I’m convinced. I don’t need to find out.” There was something about the familiar way she said Isabelle that set off an internal alarm, so I asked, “Did you get my e-mail? I sent one to Shay, too.”

  Beryl shook her head. “Something important?”

  “Maybe. Shay’s fiancé told me his family had been doing business in the Caribbean for years. He mentioned a marina and resort on Saint Lucia. In the e-mail, I asked if his family had any other holdings in the area.”

  “I can answer that—yes, they do. Sort of. The reason I know is because my father’s involved. You know what he does—buys hotels in trouble, and we turn them into high-end spas. He just locked up a deal on Saint Vincent. Michael’s mother and some of his aunts are investors.”

  I said, “Does Shay know that?”

  “There’s no reason why she should. I’m not even sure Michael knows. Have you ever met his mother, Ida? Ida doesn’t share information, she collects it like ammunition. She’ll be the mother-in-law from hell.”

  “Any chance that Isabelle Toussaint is an investor, too?”

  “I doubt that. My father may have consulted her as a sort of courtesy thing. He’s a thorough man, and it’s a tight little industry. How do you think I got into the Orchid without a reserv
ation?”

  I was thinking, incredible. Unlike Tomlinson, I believe in coincidence. Life is a series of random intersections that conform to a statistical pattern, so coincidence is inevitable. But when multiple coincidences create their own pattern, I become wary.

  “When Shay was researching places to rent, who told her about the beach house?”

  “I thought she found it on the Internet. But I guess—” Beryl put a hand to her mouth and yawned. “—I guess it’s possible she asked around for advice. Maybe my father, I don’t know. She didn’t ask me, because it was a surprise.”

  I was looking over the woman’s shoulder. On the far wall, near the meditation corner, was a familiar painting. A child’s crib. White, like the painting I’d seen in Toussaint’s château. Strange.

  Beryl yawned again, dozy enough to smile, and said, “You enjoy this, don’t you?” sounding more like the woman who’d stood in my lab, wearing a towel. “Helping friends, I mean—Shay told me that about you. Putting together all the little pieces when someone’s life gets broken. True?”

  I said, “Sometimes. I don’t like clutter.”

  “I’m the same way, you know. Chaos, I can’t stand it. Life should be balanced. Fair . . . but lots of times it’s not. So I can relate . . . sort of. You’re like some Boy Scout who goes around neatening up a world that’s way too messy. That’s how we’re different. I’m not nearly as respectable as I pretend to be.”

  Beryl had said something similar in the hospital parking lot, then again when she spoke of her abduction. This time, though, her tone was affectionate and dreamy . . . like the steady flood and thunder of waves from unseen speakers, the volume turned louder now.

  The woman moved a step closer, her face and auburn hair golden above the candle, like an old photo. “I can prove it to you, if you want. Do you really have to leave?”

  I cupped the flame with my hand, looking up at her as I answered. “Yes. But it’s not because I took some kid’s oath. If you go to that beach house alone, Beryl, don’t expect a Boy Scout to save the pretty girl this time. It might not happen.”