Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  “Are you being mean because I criticized Shay?”

  “No. I’m being honest. I want you out of here in the morning. The first helicopter leaves at nine. If the helicopter’s full, take the ferry. Okay?”

  I blew out the candle and left.

  29

  AS I EXITED BERYL’S ROOM, I heard a latch open a few doors down, and I ducked into the shadows of an arched recess in the cloister wall—a space created for religious artifacts, not men my size. I tried to flatten myself as the door opened and an equally large man stepped out. Because of LEDs on the balustrades, there was enough light for me to recognize Fabron.

  I relaxed a little, tempted to step out and let him see me. I had my reasons.

  I didn’t like Fabron. It wasn’t just because of his indifference at the cliff that morning. As I left Norma’s massage room, I’d found Fabron and another staffer waiting in the hall, eager to punish me with the Orchid’s sweat lodge rotation. For two hours, they’d ping-ponged me between a sauna, a steam bath, and a cold-water dip pool, berating me as I transitioned from oven to ice.

  Fabron was dangerous, as Norma had said. He was also a sadist. He and his partner taunted me in the good-natured way sadists do, testing me with insults—my thick glasses, the scars, my farmer’s tan—trying their damnedest to get a reaction. It didn’t happen.

  I rotated from sauna to ice pool, wearing a fixed smile as if enjoying myself, even though I was monitoring a growing fury. But maybe it was therapeutic after Norma’s massage. Imaginary or not, I felt like I was on ching chi overload. Thoughts of Beryl, Senegal . . . and Norma, too, all added to the fluttering abdominal tension and genitalic barometrics that define extreme male horniness. It was easier to deal with in the plunge pool where water was a scrotum-numbing fifty degrees.

  I endured that circuit for two hours. For two hours I smiled, which only made Fabron madder. So he pushed harder, and the insults got nastier, but never once did he see me flinch. It wasn’t until another Novitiate banged on the door that I let Fabron see my distress.

  “Does this mean we have to stop?” I asked, frowning for the first time. “Or did the real therapist finally show up?”

  Fabron and I locked eyes. In those clarifying seconds the façade crumbled, all the bullshit pretense vanished.

  I hoped that Fabron and I would have our day. So did he.

  Now here he was.

  FABRON WAS TUCKING in his shirt as he let the heavy door swing shut, and I heard him say, "Silly bitch.” The door didn’t close completely. He didn’t notice or didn’t care. Just kept walking, working at his shirt.

  I relaxed, stepped into the light as he hurried toward the quadrangle, and I fought the temptation to whistle him back. But then another man appeared from my right, and I lunged for the shadows again as he called in a loud whisper, “Hey there, Fabron. Fabron. How you doing, man?”

  It was another staffer. He followed Fabron a few steps . . . called his name again . . . then stopped in front of me, ten yards away. The man looked familiar—a mistake I’d made before. White shirt with logo, white pants, a large round man with an oversized round head, black hair slicked back, wearing sunglasses on this moonless night and smoking a cigarillo that smelled of maple syrup in the dense sea air.

  Christ . . . I did recognize him. It was the bagman from the bank. The one who’d been in the camera blind shooting video, and owned the dog that almost nailed me above the beach cottage. Sir James had said his name was Deepak Wulfelund—the one they called Wolfie. He was older than Fabron and Ritchie and the others; the one who I suspected had more power. Which meant he was more closely linked with Isabelle Toussaint. So why was I surprised to see him?

  Beryl was mad because the party boys weren’t at the monastery— which made no sense because she’s not a woman easily forgotten. Now here was the fourth, and he was just as likely to recognize her. Wolfie was also the only man on the island who could ID me. The two of us had spent half an hour at the Bank of Aruba, sizing each other up, not bothering to disguise our mutual contempt.

  It wasn’t a large place. Wolfie would spot me tomorrow or the next day, and tell Toussaint that I’d okayed Shay’s money transfer. She’d run me off the island. Or worse. Probably much worse. They might use the dogs, or the cliff . . . or both, as they had with Norma’s teenaged nephew.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  Preemptive strike is the military term. But was it my best option? I had to think this one through. I was no longer authorized to take extreme action. I couldn’t go running to the nearest embassy if I got in trouble. There would be no choppers sent to extract me. What were prisons like in the Eastern Caribbean?

  But then I thought of Corey’s family, and I thought of Corey: an attractive, Cuban-looking girl, warm-eyed, sweet, who could’ve been an actress if her life hadn’t intersected with predatory men. Her husband was one. Deepak Wulfelund was another.

  Preemptive action was the right choice.

  I touched a hand to the back of my pants and repositioned the little Colt semiautomatic. I don’t like using guns. They’re loud. They’re impersonal. But I would let it play out, and do what I had to do.

  I watched Fabron return, smiling and shaking his head. He banged Wolfie’s outstretched fist, the way ballplayers sometimes do, saying, “No luck with the ladies tonight? Me neither, man. I’ve been downed twice, and the bitch in that room slapped me. That’s enough.” For a moment, I thought Fabron was pointing at me, but he was pointing at the door only a few feet away. How could he not see me?

  He didn’t.

  Fabron said to Wolfie, “Probably a good thing to get some rest after last night, hey, man?” his accent more Caribbean than French now that he was alone with a friend. “These women, Wolfie, they’re wearin’ me out.”

  They laughed, voices low.

  Wolfie said, “Yeah, man, yeah. Wait ’til you been working for the Widow long as me. I’ve seen women—you want to talk stories? We get the Canadian ladies, the German ladies, the ones from hick towns back in the States. They get down here so cold, all they want is to get warm and show how hip they are. Hear what I’m sayin’? One day, you and me, we’ll get us a case of Piton and talk stories.”

  Then Wolfie said, suddenly serious, “My man, we’ve got something important to take care of tonight. That’s why I been looking for you. We got another problem—sort of like last night, that kid. Only this time it’s a woman. And it’s someone we work with. That bother you?”

  “Who we talking about?”

  “Answer my question. Something like that bother you?”

  “No. Nothing bothers me, man. First time for everything, eh? But if she looks okay, you know, got a decent body, we don’t want to just waste something like that. That’s why I’m asking—”

  “Man, you do whatever you want with her. We discussing a woman who did something very stupid. Created a serious situation here, and the Widow, she found out. The Widow has her ways, you know. So she’s taking care of business . . . in the way the Maji Blanc takes care of business.”

  Wolfie meant something by that, I could tell by Fabron’s sudden interest—a touch of awe in his voice, asking, “She’s taking care of the woman personally—right now? As we stand here?”

  “She’ll probably get started in ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  A smile came into Wolfie’s voice. “You ain’t never witnessed the Maji Blanc with your own eyes, have you? You want to watch our Lady come out in her robes—she sortta floats. I’ve seen it—torches burning, big ol’ fire. And her skin is so white, man, it glows. Like a fucking movie, I’m telling you.”

  Fabron chuckled, maybe sounding skeptical, which Wolfie didn’t like. “You don’t believe in the spirits, man? You witness the Maji Blanc just once, and you’ll be wearin’ beads and mixin’ turpentine with bluestone along with the rest of us. Dirk, he didn’t believe—he spoke a profanity toward the Widow, and you see where he is tonight? In hospital. A creature come out of the night, only one eye i
n his head. The La’Ja’bless, size of a fucking gorilla, and he crushed Dirk’s ribs. You’re hearing this from me, a man who was there. The spirit world’s real. Don’t you be laughing when discussing these matters.”

  Fabron said, “Hey, I’m not laughing at that. I’m very respectful to what you’re saying. That’s why—do you think I could see it with my own eyes?”

  Wolfie put a heavy hand on Fabron’s shoulder, turning him, and began walking—the wise elder taking charge. “In that case, why’nt we go to the Lookout first, and burn something special? You want a very mellow mood in your head before you see the Maji Blanc. If you still up for it then, I’ll ask the Widow can you see this special thing.”

  I waited until the two men were halfway across the quadrangle before I stepped into the light. I’d give them a minute before following . . . but then I noticed the room number on the door that Fabron had left ajar. Room 7.

  You silly bitch.

  Senegal.

  WHEN I CRACKED THE DOOR, I heard Senegal yell, “Stay away! I’ll call the police, damn you. The British Consulate, too. Get out!” Something metallic banged the wall, and I realized she’d thrown a candle-holder.

  I gave it a few seconds, knocked politely, then stuck my head in, whispering, “Senny? Senny, it’s me.” I hoped the familiar nickname would register before she threw something else.

  It did.

  “Doctor—”

  “Quiet. No need to say my name.”

  “You’re not . . . wait . . . I don’t—”

  I pushed the door wider and held a finger to my lips. Shhhhh.

  There was the sound of ocean waves in this dimly lit room where there was a lamp broken on the floor and bedsheets were in a heap near an overturned chair. It looked like the aftermath of a fight.

  Senegal, in her dressing gown, was a wilted gray shape in the corner, a glass in her hand, ready to throw. She stepped away from the wall when she recognized me, and I touched my lips again.

  She moved closer, whispering, “I’m very glad you’re here.”

  I was looking at the ceiling. No smoke alarm, no fire sprinklers. On the chest of drawers, though, was a radio clock like mine. Senegal said nothing as I walked toward the clock as if approaching a snake, then slowly turned it toward the wall.

  “Why are you—?”

  I shook my head—quiet—as I walked around the bed and put my hands on her arms. I expected a response when I pulled her close and put my cheek next to hers. There was none. The woman leaned against my chest, stiff as a mannequin.

  “Keep your voice down. There’s a miniature camera in the clock. Probably a microphone hidden somewhere, too.”

  “I suspected.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t think they can monitor all the rooms at the same time. Odds are in our favor—especially if they believe I work here. I think the staff visits the guests on a regular basis.”

  She nodded, her body beginning to tremble as she said in a normal voice, “Of course I know who you are. You work here. It’s good to see you again.”

  The woman caught on fast.

  I put my mouth next to her ear. “Senny . . . it’s all right now. He’s gone.”

  She nodded again. “Are you very sure?” Her nightgown was damp. Her skin felt too cool.

  “Yes. You’re safe.”

  Slowly, as if thawing, her body softened against my chest. She moved her hands to the back of my shoulders, relying on them to support her weight as she melted into me. I felt her shudder, then felt her breath on my neck as she whispered, “How bloody awful to have to pretend to be brave when you’re not.”

  I said, “That’s the definition of bravery.”

  “You’re wrong, I’m afraid. It really is a bastard of an act to pull off.”

  “Whatever you did, it worked. He’s not coming back.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “One way or the other, yes, I’m certain.”

  The woman pulled away, and stood on her own. “I feel absolutely drained. He almost saw me cry—silly of me to care about something so trivial, but I didn’t want to give him satisfaction. And I didn’t, by God!”

  Senegal was a tough one, already rallying. I was relieved, but had to remind her, “Your voice. Whisper.”

  “Yes, of course.” She looked at the clock radio, then at the mess on the floor. “I was being filmed the entire time . . . with him?”

  “Filmed or monitored. Maybe both.”

  “Then we finally have the bugger. He thought he could seduce me again. When I refused, he tried to force me. I gave him a hell of a whack on the face. If a jury sees the film, off he goes to prison. Fabron—such an absurd name.”

  I said, “Seduce you again?”

  “Yes.” The woman moved from the shadows to the bed, and sat in silence for several seconds, neatening her nightgown. I reached into the bathroom, hit the switch, then adjusted the door so a wafer of light reached her. Her sleeve was ripped. Buttons were missing from her gown.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. This time I fought back. He was the one who came to the villa the night I was filmed. I never thought I’d see him again. But when I showed up for my massage appointment, there he was. Came into the room after I was already undressed and under the sheet—smiling that sickening smile of his.

  “He recognized me, of course. Expected to continue where we’d left off. So I’ve been doing it all day, pretending to be brave. He damn near succeeded during the massage. He . . . knew how to do things with his hands. I nearly gave in, but I didn’t. Then about ten minutes ago, he tapped on my door and wanted to give it another try. I’d hoped it was you.”

  There was a carafe filled with herbal tea and ice on the nightstand. She poured as she whispered, drinking from the glass she’d intended to throw. I shook my head when she offered it to me, then watched her gulp the glass empty.

  “I was parched . . . didn’t even realize it until this moment. But what I really need is a tumbler of gin. God, what I’d give for a bottle of iced Plymouth.” She laughed—yes, a strong woman—then looked toward the light that angled from the bathroom. “Would we be safer there?”

  I said, “I’ll check.” A few seconds later, I said, “It’s clear.”

  She was still thirsty. The glass hid her face as she came toward me. I was saying, “I think it’s best if we—” but stopped as she lowered the glass. When Senegal saw my expression, she looked at the floor, as if ashamed, and covered her left cheek with the palm of her hand. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  I had to move her hand to look. What I’d mistaken for shadow was a bruise that was beginning to swell, already showing purple hues.

  “He hit you.”

  She nodded, still looking at the floor. When I released her hand, she used it to hide the bruise again.

  “More than once?”

  “No. Well . . . only hard once. But I told you, I hit him first. Gave him a hell of a whack. I was surprised no one heard us! And during the massage, I let him go farther than I should—it’s only right to admit it. I don’t know what got into me. So, in a way, he’s not entirely to blame.”

  It was a struggle to keep my voice low. “That’s nonsense. You know it.” Now I was beginning to shake.

  “I’m only trying to be fair. And there’s something else—please understand. I can’t bear to have my photo in any more magazines. Or more stories telling lies about my personal life. A woman who whores about in the tropics, that’s how they’ll portray me. It’s precisely what will happen if we complain to management, or the police—”

  I said, “You’re in charge. I won’t say a word,” as I sat next her. “Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do. So calm down, it’s going to be okay. We need to get some ice on that bruise.”

  “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your understanding—” Senegal flinched when I rested my hand on her shoulder, then turned to look at me. “Your body’s shaking. Why?”

  I stood and found the ic
e bucket. “I’m upset,” I said, because it was easier than explaining symptoms of rage. “It’s not safe here. As a favor, I’d like you to return to Saint Lucia in the morning. There’s a woman in Room three, a few doors down. Her name’s Beryl. She’s leaving on the first helicopter, too.”

  “You met her here?”

  “It’s a long story. Do you remember my room number? If there’s trouble, go there. The door’s unlocked.”

  I handed her a washcloth packed with ice, and watched her touch it to her face. “I’ll have some things to do, so don’t worry if I’m not there.” I drew the little semiautomatic and tossed it on the bed. “Use this if you need to—and don’t forget about Beryl. She’s a friend.”

  I made sure the woman’s door locked behind me, and I jogged toward the cliff they called the Lookout.

  30

  THE EMPLOYEE WHO had created a situation, who had done something stupid, was Norma. As far as I knew, all she’d done was entrust me with the truth. If that was her crime, the truth had a heavy price on this island.

  Fabron had the woman over his shoulder, carrying her toward the rim of the cliff that jutted out over the sea. She was rolled into a section of carpet, like a mummy. I didn’t realize there was a person inside, at first. Didn’t know it was Norma until they passed me, almost to the cliff.

  The only reason I happened to spot Fabron was because he and Wolfie weren’t where I’d expected to find them, so I’d gone searching. Toussaint’s château was the logical second stop. Fabron wanted to see the Maji Blanc in her robes, with torches burning. Wolfie was his eager mentor. So that’s the direction I headed.

  I was almost to the cemetery when I noticed a figure in the distance. I had been walking fast, not jogging, sometimes turning full circles without stopping—alert. It was the only reason I saw Fabron before he saw me. Noticed a large shadow coming through the trees. The shadow became a man walking in the slow, staggering way men walk when they’re carrying something heavy.

  I had knelt behind gravestones and waited. Saw that it was Fabron when he took out a flashlight and shined it around. I saw that he was carrying a roll of something—carpet, maybe—and knew there had to be a person inside because of the weight, and what else bends to conform to a man’s shoulder?