“In truth, she wanted you by her side.” His words are little more than the hiss of a snake. With the sound of the drums beating in the air, I’m forced to read his lips to get the meaning of what he says more than actually hearing him. “It was always about you.”
“Jacques, you know nothing ever happened between us. I only have eyes for Trixie, and you know it.”
The dancing woman passes by my field of vision again. Her movements are now frenzied. Chaotic. From what I understand, she appears to now be in the trance-like state that practitioners call ‘being ridden’ by the loa. In other words, possessed by their voodoo spirits.
“Oh, Trixie.” His grin is back, and it’s even more maniacal than before. “Your precious songbird. If you only knew what I know about d’at girl.” He pauses, his head cocking to one side. “Maybe I’ll share wit’ you before you die. It’ll break your little white heart.”
I shrug off his words. He’s trying to mess with me. Trying to play with my emotions. A cat toying with the mouse before he devours it.
“You’re not listening. I would never have betrayed you, and you know it.” My volume is rising, and it’s rewarded by a jab to the neck. “You know it.” I’m back to a whisper. “Angelique knew it, too. That’s why she had Clarise drug me. She knew I would never agree to selling out my country for a price. Knew I’d never agree to cross Morris.”
The Candyman sneers at the mention of his name. “Ah, yes. Your good friend Morris.” He moves the dagger from my throat and begins using the blade to slice through the buttons of my shirt to expose my chest. The maniac really is planning on sacrificing me. “She drugged him, too, ya know.”
I nod. “Clarise said as much.”
“Want to know what happened to him?”
I blink, unsure where the big man is going with this question.
“Want to know why he wasn’t d’ere, too, when you woke up?”
“Okay. Tell me.”
He chuckles. “You’re wrong about one t’ing, Joe. Angelique did include me in her plan for da list. At least, at first. She had no intention of keeping me after, but she needed me for da time being. She knew Morris would never give up da list’s hiding spot willingly, so she drugged him. A last minute change of plans led her to drugging you as well, hoping to keep you in da dark about her little scheme.”
He’s now dragging the blade down my chest, slicing open a very thin sliver of skin as he does. A crimson trail starts to creep down my ribs. It stings, but at least it’s not life-threatening.
Yet.
“My boys collected him from da parlor and took him to da Customs Office.”
My mind flashes to the blood-coated wicker chair in the Vault.
“Monday Renot met d’em d’ere.” He looks me straight in the eye. “Seems he and I managed to work out a deal, after all, regarding your cargo. Together, my boys started to work on your friend right away. Meanwhile, I stayed behind. Picked up your gun while you still slept, and put a bullet in my wife’s skull, just as easy as you please.”
That last part is no surprise to me. It was merely another tempt to goad me, but I’m numb to the frame job by now. I’m much more interested in what happened to Morris.
“So tell me… How did he escape?”
The Candyman’s eyebrow arcs. “Escape? Who you talkin’ ’bout?”
“Morris. How did he escape?”
The big man bursts out laughing, rearing back in a deep throated bellow that seems to shake the entire jungle. For a moment, the drums stop beating. The dancer comes to a halt and everyone stares slack-jawed at the outburst.
“Morris? Da only t’ing he escaped was d’is mortal coil.” The drums resume their steady beat. The dancing recommences, as if never interrupted. And the Candyman leans back in, as if he’s got a humdinger of a secret to tell me. “Take a look for yourself.”
He gestures to my left. I turn where he’s pointing, but at first I see nothing but the horde of voodoo practitioners encircling the clearing.
“No, no, no,” Jacques whispers. “You gotta look up. Into da heavens.”
Slowly, my eye moves up above the heads of the Candyman’s followers, into the tree canopy above, and I gasp. There, nearly twenty feet in the air, hanging upside down by ropes tied around his ankles, is the bloating corpse of my old friend. Though decomposing and disfigured by the severe beating he received, he’s still fairly recognizable.
There’re just two things that are puzzling me. First, is the absence of his ever-present obnoxiously bright tropical shirt, which I saw him wearing the night of Angelique’s murder. The second is the realization that my old friend has been dead for days. Probably since the night he was taken from the Candyman’s home and tortured. If that’s the case, then who was it that shot Winston Musel on the day I escaped from jail? Whoever it was, they were wearing Morris’s shirt—but it couldn’t have been him.
I turn my attention back to my captor. He’s showing his teeth again, proud of his handiwork. I’m appalled. I always knew the big man could be ruthless when it came to business, but I never imagined him to be so cruel. Heartless.
“You’re going to pay for that.”
“Maybe,” he growls in my ear. “But not by you. You won’t be around long enough to do anyt’ing to me.”
Now, it’s my time to smile. He’s not expecting it from me, and it shows, with the crease in his brow.
“What? What is so amusing?”
I close my eye and take a deep, satisfying breath. I’m scared out of my mind, but at this moment, I refuse to show it.
“Killing me isn’t the smartest move you’ve ever made,” I say, a little too cocky for my own taste. But I’ve got to sell my bluff, any way I can.
“And why not?”
“Because, my old friend,” I say, opening my eye and throwing him a wink. “You haven’t yet found the list.”
21
I swear, despite the Candyman’s chocolate-colored complexion, his face turns five shades of red as he glares at me. His jaw tightens. His cheeks puff out. And the point of the knife digs slowly into my neck. I feel the warmth of my own blood, as it begins to trickle from the newly punctured wound. Fortunately, he doesn’t push deep, but it’s enough to really get my attention.
“And I suppose you mean to tell me you know where it is?”
He’s skeptical. He should be. I’m bluffing my boots off here, but with no other options, it’s the only play on the table.
I try to shrug noncommittally, but hanging from my wrists as I am, I don’t have the strength to pull it off. Instead, I give him a simple nod.
“Sure, I do. Morris told me where it is himself.”
The drummers are still banging on their bongos like it’s going out of style, but I can tell by the clumsiness of their beat that they’re getting tired. I haven’t seen the dancing woman pass by us in the last few minutes either. The Candyman’s congregation has got to be confused as to what’s going on. Sure, they’re all angry with the belief that I’ve murdered their mamba. They want to see their high priest take his revenge on me. They just never imagined there would be this much talking during the ceremony. Then again, who likes a long-winded preacher?
“I don’t believe you. Angelique. She told me you passed out, before Morris even mentioned where da list was hidden. Only t’ing that was said was d’at it was in da cargo you hauled back from Havana.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “You fat-headed turnip. Morris didn’t tell me where it was during Angelique’s ‘reading.’ He told me the night before, when he approached me on my way back to the Dream. It was quite a surprise to see him after all these years, but after the shock wore off, he told me everything. Asked for my help. Said he didn’t trust either of you two, despite having several meetings with you at your bungalow last week.”
His mouth opens in surprise. He has no way of knowing that it was little Malik who told me about the frequent meetings at the Lagrange estate, but it certainly bolsters my tall tale now.
“Where is it then?” He jabs me again with the blade.
“You dumb mumbo-jumbo-spouting sack of potatoes.” I’m not sure how wise it is to insult the monstrous priest, but I’m hoping to goad him into making a mistake. I just hope the mistake isn’t skewering me at the point of a ceremonial knife. “Why would I tell you where the list is? It’s the only thing keeping me alive.”
Jacques takes a step back, scratching his chin in thought. Then, his eyes light up. I can tell you right now, I don’t like the expression he’s giving me one bit.
“So, you want to bargain, do you?”
“Well, the thought had crossed my mind, yeah.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a fresh cigar, and lights it up while pondering his next move. Then, as if making up his mind, he nods and blows a thick cloud of smoke in my face.
“Okay. Here’s da deal.” He takes several puffs of the cigar until the tip glows with bright red embers, then takes it from his mouth and places it squarely on my stubbly cheek. The smoldering ash burns at my skin. I clench my teeth, refusing to cry out. After a moment, the cigar cools, and the pain subsides. “You tell me where da list is right now, and I don’t do da same t’ing to that pretty face on Miss Trixie.” He pauses, watching my reaction with feverish interest. “Only, I won’t be stopping just at da face. I’ll do it all over d’at luscious porcelain body of hers. And d’en, just when she can’t take no more… I’ll put a bullet in her head, just like I did sweet Angelique.”
It’s a threat I’m not expecting, and I don’t have a comeback for it. He means every word. And once he’s finished with Trixie, I have no doubt he’ll move onto Nessie next. Then Malik. And anyone else I’ve ever cared about on the island.
I ponder my next words carefully. I have to. Even if I wanted to tell him, I honestly don’t have a clue where the list really is. My bluff has backfired, and I’ve just put my closest friends in danger for nothing.
“If you touch one hair on her head, I’ll…”
“What? What will you do?”
“I’ll do everything in my power to force you to kill me. I’d honestly rather die than see you get what you want. It’s that simple.”
Then, I do the least civilized thing one man can do to another. I spit at him, hitting him right between the eyes and wiping the callous smirk from his face. I watch as his pupils dilate with rage, and he brings the dagger around to my throat once again.
“Stop!”
The voice is sharp and commanding, and it comes from somewhere behind me. The drums stop. The followers all turn their gazes in its direction. The Candyman, fortunately, also hears the command and obeys.
I hear footsteps behind me. Several. Then, three men dressed in crisp dark suits step into view. Their clothes and their hats are surprisingly clean and dry after trekking through the jungle as they have. But I guess it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that KGB spies like to look their best when trying to take over the world.
I look down at them. Lamont Kingston shuffles along behind them, but his clothes haven’t held up nearly as well. He’s holding a machete in one hand and wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief with his other. Guess Lamont gets to pull hard labor duty while he works his way up the Soviet chow line.
Alexi’s here, too. The FBI man-playing-KGB agent glances up at me for the briefest of moments, before turning his attention to Jacques.
“What do you think you are doing, Comrade Lagrange?”
Comrade?
“I’m not your comrade, Krashnov. Just a businessman, looking to sell you what you’re looking for,” the Candyman says. He’s still holding his blade awfully close to my neck.
Ah, so that explains it.
“And how do you plan to do that, if you kill the only man who knows where it is?”
The big man scoffs. “You don’t really believe d’at, do you? He’ll say anyt’ing to stay alive.”
“The problem is, you cannot be certain that is the case. Perhaps Morris Grant really did reveal the location of the information to him. Or perhaps he did so, and the American isn’t even aware of it.” He looks up at me and narrows his eyes. “Yet.”
Was that some kind of message to me? A hint?
Alexi looks at Lamont and nods in my direction. “Cut him down.”
The skinny porter looks from Alexi to the Candyman nervously. I watch as the voodoo man’s hands begin to white-knuckle the handle of his dagger, but he relents. He steps back to allow the little spy to approach me, raise his machete, and slice through the rope that’s keeping me aloft. I drop to the ground with a thud. My wrists and ankles are still bound together, but it feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from my stretched-out shoulders.
On my knees, I raise my arms up to my chest and look at Lamont. “Want to go ahead and cut these off, too, maybe?”
He sneers at me, then returns to his colleagues.
“You’re an idiot, Krashnov,” the Candyman says, his voice is little more than a grumbling growl. “You can’t trust d’is man.” He points in my direction. “He’s sly, like a ferret. A born liar. He don’t know where da list is, any more d’an you do.”
“Captain Thacker is the one who smuggled the information from Havana,” Alexi argues. “He oversaw packing the crates himself. He has got to know where the list is.”
“And I’m telling you, we have searched the crate t’oroughly, Krashnov,” the Candyman says. If this was a cartoon, I’d expect to see a plume of steam coming out both of his ears, as he jabs a thick finger into the spy’s chest. “We’ve searched his boat. We’ve searched Nessie’s bar. We’ve searched every possible location, and d’ere’s no sign of it anywhere.”
“Then how do you expect to sell the information to us? If it’s not here, then I fail to see how you can produce it. Are we wasting our time?”
“No, of course not. I’ll find it. I just need…”
“And our superior has given us express orders,” Alexi interrupts the big man. “The American is not to be killed, under any circumstances.”
Wait. What?
Why would their boss care one way or another if I lived or died? I mean, it’s true that they really have no idea how much I know or don’t know. I’m their only link to Morris Grant, after all. As Alexi pointed out, I supervised the crating of the candy and booze myself. And I’m the only living person who was at Angelique’s ‘fortune telling’ session that started it all. It would only make sense to keep me alive until they’ve got all their answers, I guess.
“Enough of this!” Vladimir Petrovic says. “We are taking him with us.” The KGB agent I’ve assumed to be second-in-command steps in front of Alexi to face the Candyman. King and Kong, concerned for their priest, lunge forward, but they come to a quick stop when the third agent, Boris Usilov, and Lamont, both pull their Russian-issued guns.
Of course, you know, that’s precisely when all hell breaks loose.
Enraged at the KGB men’s audacity, the Candyman reaches out and grabs Vladimir by the neck. Before the others can fire off their weapons, King and Kong pounce on Boris and Lamont. The crowd of onlookers scatter, running away into the jungle. The drummers leave their drums behind and follow their fellow practitioners.
Alexi, who’s been overlooked in the fracas, dashes over to me, whips out a pocket knife, and cuts the ropes from my wrists and ankles.
“Come on,” he says. “We need to get…”
BAM!
A tiny red hole blossoms out from Alexi’s skull, as the sound of a rifle cracks from somewhere in the jungle. He drops instantly, leaving me spattered in blood and trembling. The FBI man had only been inches away from me. Had the bullet flown just a few inches toward me, it’d be me lying dead on the damp soil right now. As for mourning the agent’s passing, I have no time.
The Candyman, his goons, and the KGB boys have stopped fighting and are now looking at me, standing over the dead man.
“Ah, come on!” I shout. “You’re not going to blame m
e for this, too, are you?”
They don’t seem to be amused by my joke. Instead, they each scramble in my direction. I’m just beginning to turn around and make a break for it, when another shot echoes in the distance, and Kong tumbles forward with a gunshot wound to his chest.
“Run, Joe!” shouts a very feminine voice from the dense vegetation.
I’ve already guessed who my Annie Oakley rescuer is, but Trixie’s voice calling out to me between gunshots cinches it. The songbird bombshell has come to my rescue all over again, and I couldn’t be more grateful to her for it.
My remaining pursuers take cover behind trees, palmettos, and stones. The armed KGB agents fire wildly in Trixie’s direction, and I use the chaos to make good my escape. I dash into the undergrowth, weaving my way in and out of the trees, trying to keep them as cover between me and the Reds.
Gunshots ring out, dousing the jungle in a wave of ear-splitting cracks and a cloud of smoke. Through the noise, however, I hear an enraged roar behind me. I turn to see the Candyman’s immense figure barreling through the vegetation in my direction, his dagger gripped tightly in his hand.
Like a giant, his long legs pound through the muck of the jungle floor, gaining on me with every step. I pump my legs faster, but I know it’s only a matter of time before he catches up to me. My only hope is to out-distance him. Our size difference alone affords me greater endurance, and as long as I can stay a few steps away from him, he’ll eventually tire himself out.
But as I’ve said, me and Lady Luck have never seen eye to eye. Or maybe it’s just that my pursuer is better than me in every way, because in a last ditch effort to catch up to me, the voodoo gangster hurls his dagger through the air. Its blade sinks deep into the back of my shoulder, and I drop like a suitcase filled with bricks.
I’m face down in the mud, and the Candyman is on top of me before I can scramble to my feet. There’s a sharp, biting pain in my back from the knife blade, which is only amplified as the big man’s fists slam down into my kidneys with blinding speed. I heave for breath, but he doesn’t relent. Instead, he keeps beating me from behind.
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