Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  I dropped the senator’s video and the French first lady’s video into my backpack and continued searching.

  Shay’s video was labeled: Money/FloridaGirls/Michael’s Jezebel. Jezebel, the biblical whore. It explained why Toussaint, who preyed on the super-rich, had bothered to entrap a redneck girl attempting to marry above her class.

  There was nothing filed under the last names of Beryl, Liz, or Corey, but I found Senegal’s video under F. It was cross-referenced: Politics/U.K.

  I was thinking about the desk computer—how could I destroy its memory files?—when I heard a banging, thumping commotion overhead. Sounded as if someone was moving furniture. Then, a dog began barking. Deep, wolfish roars. I stopped and listened . . . listened until the dog went silent and the thumping stopped. I happened to be standing near the wall safe. This time, I took a closer look.

  Inside were stacks of hundreds and fifties banded into four-inch bricks of $10,000 and $5,000, bank notations on the wrappers. Bricks were layered five high, five wide, from the front to the safe’s back wall. Half a million cash. No . . . more.

  Toussaint owed Shay and the girls money. I dropped eleven blocks of bills into my backpack—$110,000. Hesitated, then took another. Expenses.

  There were two steel storage trays in the safe. One contained legal documents: deeds, the woman’s birth certificate (Isabelle Marie Raousset-Boulbon), her Catholic confirmation papers, a faded marriage certificate— something touching about that combination. I shut the drawer and opened the second. There were gold coins in plastic sleeves, and several black velvet boxes—jewelry. I opened the most ornate box and saw a sapphire the size of a robin’s egg. The Midnight Star.

  I removed the necklace and held it to the light, thinking that maybe Shay deserved a special wedding present—if she still wanted to marry Michael after learning the truth about his vicious family. The sapphire glittered, revealing a blue-black world within. Reminded me of a lighted aquarium, with crystal walls that isolated; a weightless space where beautiful predators might drift. Tempting.

  On those nights when Tomlinson and I discuss—debate, really—matters of spirituality, he is quick to remind me that my rigid, Darwinist’s view of the world does not explain my own moral compass. It’s irritating because he’s right. So I’ve come to accept conscience as yet another of my irrational conceits. I have to live with myself.

  I returned the necklace to its box, returned the box to the safe, and closed the drawer.

  I wanted to take or destroy all the videos and film, along with the woman’s computer. There was a lot of misery in that rotating file, but I couldn’t fit all of the cassettes plus the money into my backpack. Moral compass or not, I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave the money. I needed another bag.

  I was looking at the wooden door, wondering if it was a storage closet or a bathroom when, for the first time, I heard a banging noise coming from the other side. I placed the pack on the floor and I drew my gun. Heard the noise again, and reconsidered: Maybe the smart thing to do was grab my backpack and run.

  But it was an unusual, muted sound, familiar on some basic level. Panic muted by constriction—like that. Reminded me of the thumping sound a rabbit might make while succumbing to the patient jaws of a snake.

  I walked to the door and put my ear against it. The cries of a person who’s been gagged also register on a primal level, and that’s what I heard. I cracked the door . . . then pulled it wide, gun raised . . . and I nearly squeezed the trigger when a woman lunged at me with a knife.

  I backpedaled as she charged me. Then slapped her strong arms aside, hearing the knife clatter on tile, and swung her against the wall, gun to her temple. She stopped struggling as I looked into her eyes—liquid amber eyes, glazed with fear.

  Slowly, I lowered the gun.

  “Norma?”

  I said the name again as her eyes cleared with recognition. “Norma!”

  The woman stood looking at me, stunned. Then she pushed away as if ashamed, crying, “I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t do it. Thank God it’s you, because I need help. I just can’t make myself stab her.”

  Behind Norma, on the bathroom floor, next to an antique tub, was Isabelle Toussaint. She lay with her ankles, hands, and mouth bound with duct tape, her white gown pulled up above her chest, panties gone. The sight of her made me wince, and I looked away. Norma had surprised the woman while she was using the toilet.

  “Paul, she killed my Paul,” Norma sobbed. She stepped toward me, and I let her bury her face against my chest. “That poor boy only came up the mountain to tell me his father died. But this bitch put the dogs on him, anyway. Used the same dogs to kill my son that took my husband’s legs, and made him a beggar.”

  Her son? Not her nephew? Now things became clearer.

  Toussaint recognized me. She began to grunt as she inch-wormed across the tile, pleading with wild, wide eyes. Did she really expect me to help her?

  I knelt, retrieved the knife, and told Norma, “Fill that tub with water.” When I said it, Toussaint made a sound that resembled a scream.

  It was while lugging the computer tower into the bathroom that I remembered what Norma had said about having her mouth taped. They could’ve drowned me, easy. She was explaining the heightened fear that accompanied vulnerability.

  Not a bad idea. Drown Toussaint.

  I put the computer into the tub and popped the cover. Positioned it under the spigot; noticed what might have been a memory board and ripped it free before I forced myself to look down at the woman.

  It was painful, the sight of her. Not only because of her body, but because she was terrified. It was in her eyes.

  I felt an irrational twinge of sympathy, but it passed quickly. Fabron and Wolfie had suffered ultimate terror at my hands, yet I didn’t feel remorse. I felt a clinical indifference. Norma had described Toussaint looking into her eyes, hoping to see fear. How many faces had Toussaint searched with the same sick need? Being a hermaphrodite didn’t give her license to make life hell for others.

  Toussaint watched me as I looked at the bathtub, opened both valves full, then looked at her. “The four girls from Florida you blackmailed— one of them’s dead because of you.”

  The woman shook her head and grunted, breathing faster.

  I reached into the tub. The computer tower made a gurgling sound of displaced air when I turned it over. “Did you ever see The Wizard of Oz? The scene where Dorothy throws water on the witch?”

  I could tell by Toussaint’s frantic reaction that she had.

  “What does the witch say as she’s melting? Something about ‘all my beautiful evil.’ You’re a witch, Isabelle. If I put you in this tub, would you melt?”

  She made the grunting, screaming noise again, and began to snake-crawl on her back, inching toward the door.

  I stepped over her and blocked her way. “But I’m not goin’ to drown you. Instead, I’m sending you to hell.”

  She looked at me, her eyes intent.

  “I’ve got your tapes, Isabelle. Your political connections won’t save you. One of them is of the French president’s wife. Even if your island cops don’t care, the French cops will.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “French law overrules Saint Arc law—but I guess you know that. You’re going to prison. For someone like you—” It took an effort not to glance at her genitals. “—prison will be worse than hell.”

  I knelt and picked up the white robe, ignoring her muffled screams and her lunging attempt to bite me through the tape. I covered the Maji Blanc more carefully than she deserved, and closed the bathroom door behind me.

  SIR JAMES came into the office as I stood at the safe, dropping more bricks of cash into my backpack. His face was grimy, smudged with blood, his ascot gone. What the hell had he been doing? Looked like his bag was already full, too, but I said, “If you’re not too busy, clean out that file. There’re about twenty more videos.” I would tell him about Toussaint later.

&nb
sp; Norma was exhausted, sitting limp in a chair, and gave me a look— Who the hell’s he? I winked, telling her it was okay as Montbard said, “You’ve already found the tapes? And also made a beautiful new friend, I see.”

  I was on adrenal overload, and not in the mood for his chivalrous bullshit.

  “Yeah, I have them—no thanks to you. So get busy. Whoever’s banging around upstairs could come down any second, or send one of those damn dogs—”

  “Temper, temper,” Montbard interrupted, an odd, sweaty smile on his face. “I was the one banging around up there. And the gentleman who required my attention is now tied and gagged, locked in a closet. Called me an ‘old man,’ the cheeky bastard. And his damn dog is dead— but at a price.” He held up his left hand. Fingers and wrist were wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. Looked like the sleeve of his jacket was soaked, too.

  “I haven’t been totally useless, you see. I also have the keys to the man’s vehicle—although I have no idea where it’s parked.” He went silent for a moment. Lifted the handkerchief gently and checked his watch—a little pool of blood had already collected at his feet. “Hmm, my diversion’s two minutes late. I do apologize for that.”

  Sounding dazed and exhausted, Norma said, “We don’t need his car. I came in a van from staff housing. It’s outside.”

  I had twenty-six more bricks of cash in my pack. Norma could never return to Saint Arc, and she would need money. Corey’s family deserved an extra cut, too.

  Before zipping the bag closed, I opened the steel drawer and added the Midnight Star.

  Expenses.

  I asked the Englishman, “Do we use the tunnel, or is it safe to go through the house?” I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. We had to get to the beach house. We had to find Shay and Beryl.

  Applying pressure to his bloody hand, Montbard said, “We’ll use the front door, of course. But try to ignore the mess.”

  35

  I WAS AT THE WHEEL of the van, accelerating, but backed off the pedal after only a couple of seconds. It was an older three-speed Dodge, gearshift on the column, brakes soft, shocks spongy, headlights misaligned. The road down the mountain was one lane, rock and gravel. Lots of switchbacks and unmarked curves on this black and cloudless night. Any faster, I’d overrun my headlights.

  Norma was beside me. Montbard was on the bench seat behind us. He’d spent a couple of minutes on the little VHF radio, trying to raise the Saint Lucien marine patrol or a friendly vessel. But there was no reception because of the forest, so now he concentrated on stopping the bleeding. The bite was worse than he’d let on. The dog had ripped cordage away on the underside of his wrist and taken part of his ring finger. Gruesome to look at. The man remained stoic, though, even cheerful, but I knew he was in pain. He would need surgery.

  I accelerated through a curve, then downshifted when I saw a security gate ahead—two men in uniforms visible inside the lighted guardhouse. I looked at Norma.

  “Keep going, but not too fast. They don’t stop people leaving, just people coming in.”

  I said, “You’re sure?” One of the men had stepped out of the gatehouse, hand on his pistol.

  Behind me, Sir James coughed, then laughed. “Better late than never!” I didn’t understand what he meant until I looked in the side mirror and saw a dazzling snow cone of red brighten the night sky. It burst into a multicolored shower of light. A second later, a thunderous boom shook the van. A blue starburst followed, then a high, arching fountain of orange streamers.

  “Fireworks,” Norma said, perplexed. “Why are they shooting off fireworks? I don’t think it’s a holiday.”

  The guards must have been wondering the same thing. They barely glanced at me as I slowed and waved, using my hand to shield my face. Then I accelerated, eyes on the mirror, watching the two men stand childlike, faces turned upward at a rain-forest sky that boiled with color.

  Montbard was still laughing, but his laughter had the detached flavor of shock. I said, “How are you doing back there?”

  “Bloody fucking lovely,” the man said, teeth clenched. “By God, our Chinese brothers deserve full marks for inventing fireworks. I do love the smell of cordite. And the white phosphorous glow of an incendiary—even these weak things—it leaves a smile on my face. Damn nice show I’m putting on. Too bad we’ll miss it.”

  I said, “You hang on, Hooker,” as Norma said, “Your fireworks? They’re beautiful,” sounding like a nurse comforting a patient. She was turned in her seat, looking toward the back window, but not because of the fireworks. She was concerned about Montbard. “Don’t you worry. We’ll be able to see them from the beach. I bet people at the resort are out right now, watching.” When she added, “Ohhh . . . that was a nice one,” I checked the mirror: a blue velvet starburst with silver sparklers. The Midnight Star floated into my mind.

  “Ford, old man, will you promise me something? If we get to the beach house and find our girls hurt, I’d like you to promise you’ll boot me down all three hundred and eighty-one steps at Bluestone. Would you mind?”

  “With pleasure,” I said.

  Norma told him, “He’s not going to touch you as long as I’m around,” then slipped into the backseat, saying she thought there might be towels in the rear of the van. Montbard was suddenly concerned.

  “My bag’s back there, dear lady. Do be careful, won’t you?”

  I heard the woman grunt. “That must be what’s sitting on the towels. I’ll try, but it’s heavy . . . what in the world’s in here?” But then she said, “Got them,” and pivoted back to her seat with a stack of towels. In the rearview mirror, I watched her pull the bloody handkerchief away from Montbard’s hand.

  “Marion? Is there a light or something?”

  I kept my eyes on the road as I fished the little Triad flashlight from my pocket and handed it to her.

  After several seconds, Norma said, “This is bad. This is real bad. We’ve got to get him to the clinic and fetch the doctor. The clinic’s not far from the rental—”

  “No doctor, and no clinic,” Montbard interrupted. “Not on this island. We just robbed the most powerful woman around. It would be unwise to linger.”

  “Mister, I don’t want to scare you, but I’ve dealt with the kind of wound you’ve got. You could lose this hand. And you’ve already lost a lot of blood.”

  “Then I’ll lose my hand,” he said. “Rather that than the local jail.”

  “Is dying better than jail? Because that’s what might happen, the way you’re bleeding. Marion—he’s white as a ghost. The clinic’s only two miles at the most—”

  “No doctors. Sorry. I’ll not discuss it anymore.”

  The woman made a grumbling sound of frustration and slapped the seat. She was done with crying now, getting angry. “Those damn dogs! Why are you men always so stubborn about getting help? They got teeth as dirty as snakes, but you don’t care.”

  Puzzled, Montbard said, “You work at the place. What do you have against the dogs? Brazilian mastiffs—only doing their jobs, dear.”

  I said, “Hooker, she has her reasons. Okay?”

  “Don’t be sharp with him, Marion. There’s no way he could know. It was almost thirteen years ago my man came crawling into the village, so torn up by those dogs he wanted to die. He would’ve rather died than live like he did. And I have more reasons than that to hate them. I wish you’d killed them all.”

  I took a chance and said, “I think Sir James knew your husband, Norma. You told me he was a good man, Hooker.”

  Montbard was confused, but said, “You lost your husband recently, dear? I’m so sorry.”

  “Two days ago, he finally left us. But he was never really a man again because of those dogs. He was a proud one, Paul senior. Wouldn’t let me be his wife after what happened. Didn’t want our son to know his father was begging for coins on the street, either. After that night, we were never a family again.”

  Montbard’s brain was still working fine. “Ahhh,” he said gently. “I
did know your husband, Norma. A good chap, he was. I’m truly sorry. It’s an honor to meet his widow.”

  AT FIRST, I wasn’t worried about taking Ritchie and Clovis, or anyone else, by surprise. I had the brights on, the pedal to the floor, as I fishtailed down the lane to the beach house. The sweep of headlights showed the rain-forest bluff where the camera blind was located . . . showed coconut palms leaning incrementally toward a black, vacuous space that was the sea . . . showed the outbuilding where I’d jumped the guys two nights before.

  But then I thought, why make it obvious? If the men were inside, they might panic. Could make a bad situation worse. So I switched off the lights, killed the engine, and used the clutch to coast the last seventy yards down the incline. I swung in behind a good-sized citrus tree loaded with Key limes, and handed Norma the keys.

  “I’ll be back as quick as I can. Keep the doors locked. Watch for my flashlight. Sir James knows the signals, but use your own judgment. If you think you should run, run. Don’t worry about me. My boat’s not far from here.”

  “Ford, you’re talking rubbish. I’m perfectly capable of going with you. I’m a right-handed shooter—”

  “That’s why I’m asking you to stay here. Look after Norma. It’s about time someone took care of her.” When I opened the door, the dome light came on, and the woman caught my eyes, looking from me to Montbard, whose head was now in her lap. For the first time, he looked his seventy-some years. His face was as white and fragile as rice paper. On the floor was a pile of towels soaked black with blood.

  I handed Norma the VHF. “If you roll down the window, maybe you can raise someone. We need a helicopter. Don’t worry about the price.” I pulled the SIG Sauer and ran toward the house.

  36

  THERE WAS A WHITE CAR in the drive. A midsize Volvo, which made me think of Beryl. An expensive rental car in this part of the world. Or the sort of vehicle a street guy with an ego would drive.

  I touched the hood. Cool.