Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  The first vehicle she came across she dismissed. This was no weather for a canvas-roofed Jeep Wrangler. She needed something heavier.

  And there it was. One of the green Range Rovers.

  Now this is more like it!

  As expected, the vehicle was unlocked, and the keys were in the ignition. But when she opened the driver's side door, the wind tore it out of her hand. Soaked to the skin, she climbed inside, tugging the door shut with both hands.

  She fell back against the seat, exhausted before she'd even begun. For a moment she just sat there, struggling to catch her breath. She was tense and cold and her teeth were chattering. The plunging barometric pressure, combined with the intense humidity, made her feel sluggish.

  But sluggishness was not a luxury she could afford.

  Switching on the windshield wipers, she put the Rover in four-wheel drive and backed out, then headed south, taking the shell-paved road that circled the perimeter of the island. Although it was several hours until sunset, it was eerily dark, and she switched on the brights.

  Powerful gusts of wind thrashed the Rover, and Dorothy-Anne struggled to maintain a straight course. Shells, sand, and pebbles blasted the vehicle like hail. The palm trees along the road were bent in arcs, their fronds flapping sideways like shredded green flags, and the sea was angry: black as pitch and full of white-capped waves leaping in anticipation.

  Holy shit! she thought. And this is just the outer edge of the storm!

  What would it be like when it hit full force?

  Carmine waited, the picture of calm and patience. It wouldn't be long now.

  That good old maternal instinct. It works every time.

  Carmine glanced over at the boy. Zack stared back from the chair to which he was duct-taped, his eyes huge and frightened. He was whimpering, a sound that was muffled by the tape across his mouth.

  Something—a branch, or perhaps a piece of lumber—crashed onto the metal roof of the Quonset hut that served as the mess hall and kitchen. Zack's muffled whimper increased in volume.

  What an idiot, Carmine thought. He's more afraid of the storm than of me!

  Carmine didn't bother to look up, too busy chopping underripe tomatoes on the butcher block. Who would have thought? The storeroom had everything on hand for making some nice pomodori alla Siciliana.

  Just because a hurricane was coming didn't mean you had to starve.

  Hunt had gained time by changing the flight plan and cutting diagonally from Wyoming down to Baton Rouge. During the brief stopover, he'd dropped off his pilot and had the Falcon 50 refueled.

  That done, he lost no time in taking off. He was flying the rest of this trip solo.

  The final leg of his flight would cut another diagonal—across the Gulf of Mexico to the tip of Florida. From there, he planned to angle past the northern coast of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, and approach Eden Isle head-on from the west. Flying blindly and relying on an instrument landing.

  At least, that was his plan.

  It's suicide, the instinctive half of his brain told him.

  But the cognitive half knew better. The alternative was worse. He could be doomed to a slower, and far more painful, death:

  Life without Dorothy-Anne.

  It wouldn't be worth living.

  He wondered what she was doing now, this very minute. . . .

  Driving the Range Rover as fast as she dared, that's what. The strident winds had risen to a steady fifty-five miles per hour, with howling gusts of up to seventy. Here and there, small trees and torn branches already littered the road. Loose palm fronds and leaves flew crazy loops through the air.

  Thank God for four-wheel drive, Dorothy-Anne thought, blessing its unknown inventor. As she passed the skeletal Grand Victoria Hotel, she slowed and inched her window down to see how the structure was holding up. So far, so good. Its framework was wood, and wood was pliant . . . .

  She drove past the giant free-form swimming pool, which was fast filling with rainwater, and on past Predator's Lagoon and the Oceanographic Institute. When she reached the outskirts of the temporary boomtown, she slowed down, killed the lights, and parked.

  This was as far as she dared drive.

  From here on, extreme caution was called for.

  It was time to proceed on foot.

  Dorothy-Anne opened the door of the Range Rover. Unprepared for the force of the wind, the door was torn from her grasp and swung wide.

  Damn!

  Well, at least she didn't have to worry about making noise. Everywhere, loose corrugated metal boomed like thunder, adding to the banshee shrieks of the wind and the snare drum staccato of rain hitting with the force of nails.

  Each drop felt like a stinging barb.

  She looked around, wondering where to begin her search. She had forgotten how many trailers and Quonset huts there were—literally blocks of them!

  To save time, she decided to start with the main drag, the double- wide dirt road that divided the settlement in two. She would be exposed, true, but it might help narrow down her search.

  Staying in the lee of the buildings to avoid the worst of the rain, she started walking, the sea of mud sucking at her boots, making every step an effort.

  She shivered violently. There was something chilling and eerie about the settlement, like a ghost town from which everyone had inexplicably vanished.

  She put her hand in the pocket of the raincoat where she kept the pistol. It felt heavy, but even through the baggie, the weight of the cold steel was oddly reassuring.

  And the funny thing was, she hated guns.

  'Falcon 618 Echo, this is San Juan Center.' The crackling voice filled Hunt's ears. 'We suggest you turn eighteen degrees south and skirt the hurricane. Over.'

  Hunt did not respond.

  'Falcon 618 Echo. Repeat, this is San Juan Center. Do you copy? Over.'

  Hunt took off his headphones and tossed them aside. He switched off the radio.

  Ahead and directly below, as far as the eye could see, stretched an angry, roiling sea of black clouds.

  Hurricane Cyd.

  From here on, he was flying straight into a nightmare. He would need his full powers of concentration. The least distraction could prove fatal.

  As if to prove him right, he hit a pocket of turbulence. The small jet was tossed about like a toy.

  And even as Hunt fought to regain control, the aircraft went into a nosedive. Engines screaming, it plunged toward earth.

  72

  On Eden Isle, the winds had risen to a steady fifty-eight miles per hour, with gusts of up to seventy-five.

  Dorothy-Anne was on her own, and no one knew it better than she. It was too late to expect Hunt to come streaking to the rescue. The distance he had to travel was too far. The soonest he could possibly make it—and that was stretching things—was an hour from now. By then the winds would be too powerful for even a madman to attempt a landing.

  Therefore, whoever was responsible for kidnapping Zack and killing the pilot of the Citation I—not to mention the murders of Nanny Florrie and Cecilia—would have to be dealt with by . . .

  Dorothy-Anne flinched and heard her own sharp intake of breath.

  . . . me.

  It was the only option open to her. And if she died doing it, well, then so be it.

  I'm Zack's mother. It's up to me to protect and rescue him from harm.

  Her maternal flame burned brightly. Even brighter than—could it be?—was she hallucinating?—no—two lit windows!

  There, on the flat side of the last Quonset hut on the left.

  'Thank you, Lord!' she breathed.

  Hurrying now, she sloughed through the squelching, deepening mud, oblivious to the spikes of rain hitting her face head-on. She dared feel a surge of hope.

  In her rush, Dorothy-Anne tripped over a branch and fell. She caught herself at the very last moment by breaking her fall with one arm. When she scrambled back to her feet, she made a face of disgust. The mud was eight inches deep,
and her right arm was filthy up to the elbow.

  No matter. The rain would wash it off in no time.

  And suddenly she was there. At the last Quonset hut. From up close, the lights inside shone brighter and more welcoming than she imagined. She was about to rush to the door and throw it open when some atavistic instinct slowed her.

  Careful . . .

  She crept up to the nearest window, pressed herself flat against the corrugated aluminum wall, and leaned her head slightly forward. Peering in from a sideways angle, so that she could look in, but wouldn't be noticed by anyone inside.

  Just in case . . .

  She glimpsed neat rows of utilitarian dining tables and stackable resin chairs. A long serving counter with steam tables. A big stainless steel restaurant range. And . . . were her eyes deceiving her?—a plump woman working at a counter! Cooking away as if nothing out of the ordinary were going on . . . as if the approaching hurricane were a mere inconvenience!

  Dorothy-Anne heaved a deep sigh of relief. There's nothing to fear, she thought, feeling an immense burden lift from her shoulders. I must really be getting paranoid.

  And without further ado, she went over to the door. Holding tightly to the doorknob, lest the wind flung the door out of her grasp, she turned the knob and pushed.

  The door was locked.

  Dorothy-Anne knocked, at once realizing the futility of such etiquette. Knocks couldn't be heard above the roar of the wind and the banging of torn tree limbs and the occasional unidentified flying object hitting a wall.

  She pounded on the door with her fists, desperate to get in, away from the wind and pelting rain. Even more desperate to ask the woman if she knew where the men were. And whether or not she'd seen a young boy of ten.

  The door opened. The fat woman was silhouetted in the rectangle of yellow light. She was dressed in black, with a white apron half-folded over her waist and a little gold crucifix gleaming around her neck.

  'Oh, you poor thing!' she clucked. 'You're all dirty and wet. If you stay out in this, you're liable to catch your death. Come in, come in.'

  She tugged Dorothy-Anne inside and used all her considerable weight, and a well-aimed thrust of her hip, to slam the door shut against the blasting wind. She turned the key and locked it.

  'Otherwise it'll constantly fly open,' the fat woman explained. 'But you've arrived in plenty of time for a lovely supper. It'll still be a while. Here, let me help you off with your coat.'

  It was then that Dorothy-Anne saw what was in the corner. Strategically placed so he couldn't be seen from the windows outside.

  Zack! Her precious ten-year-old angel—duct-taped to a chair, his eyes wide with terror. Trying to whimper out a warning from between duct-taped lips.

  It came out sounding: 'Humpf! Hummmmmph! Huh! Uhhhhh! Humpf-—'

  'Zack!' Dorothy-Anne screamed. She started to rush to him, but at that moment something hard connected with the back of her skull and the world went black.

  Hunt didn't try to kid himself. He had cheated death by mere seconds.

  They were, bar none, the longest twenty seconds of his entire life, and he knew he would never forget them. Even now he could hardly believe he'd managed to pull the jet out of its dive. He'd used every last trick in the book from his Top Gun days—and disaster had been narrowly averted.

  Hunt's heart, however, had yet to receive the message. It continued to jackhammer, both from the scare and the exertion of wrestling with the controls. Ditto the adrenaline that flooded his system. He was still in overdrive.

  Jesus, that was close! he thought, eyes stinging from the sweat that trickled down his forehead.

  He was highly tempted to turn the jet around and head back for the mainland.

  He thought: I won't be much use to Dorothy-Anne if I'm dead.

  That was a given.

  On the other hand, I'm Dorothy-Anne's last hope. If I chicken out, she won't survive—period.

  He stayed on course.

  'Hang in there, baby,' he growled, wishing he could send Dorothy- Anne an ESP telegram. 'Eden Isle, here I come!'

  Dorothy-Anne's eyelids quivered, as though in sleep, then suddenly snapped open. Everything was out of focus, as though she were underwater.

  She tried to lift her hand to rub her eyes, but no matter how hard she struggled, her arm refused to obey her brain's command.

  Oh my God! Her first reaction was: I'm paralyzed! I can't move!

  She shook her head, attempting to jiggle her vision into focus, and instantly regretted it. The movement sent splinters of pain shooting from the back of her skull through her entire head.

  But the shock of pain cleared her vision. And her mind.

  I'm not paralyzed, she realized, with a sinking feeling. Oh, God. I'm captive.

  She cursed, but the only sound she could make was: 'Uh! Sheeeee eeeeee!'

  Her lips wouldn't move . . . because they couldn't! Her mouth had been taped shut!

  Slowly, with dawning horror and realization, Dorothy-Anne stared down at herself—and saw herself seated on a resin armchair. Her arms were duct-taped to the chair's, her legs to its legs. A tight, mummifying swath of silver duct tape around her middle made her part of the chair back, and still more constricting strips across her thighs held her firmly down to the seat.

  Widening her field of vision, she registered that she was seated at a formica table. And that directly across from her—Oh, sweet Jesus! Sweet baby Jesus!—was Zack. Shuddering violently. Still bound to his chair. Still gagged. His big eyes wide with terror.

  The sight of him broke Dorothy-Anne's heart. If only she could talk to him, hold him in her arms, somehow soothe him. Reassure him that everything was going to be all right.

  But of course, that was impossible.

  Nor was everything going to be all right.

  Slowly Dorothy-Anne turned her head to the left. The fat woman was still cooking. At the moment, sprinkling flour on the butcher block surface while rolling out dough with a rolling pin. Now and then stopping to rub her fleshy pink forearm across her sweaty brow, and then continuing.

  Closer in, two items on the table caught Dorothy-Anne's attention. One was the flashlight; the other was the pistol, still in its waterproof baggie, which Captain Larsen had given her.

  Dorothy-Anne eyed the firearm like a parched person lost in the desert might gaze upon an oasis. She moved her fingers, first tentatively, then briskly. She clenched and unclenched her hands. But when she tried to wiggle her arms, she realized it was futile. There was no slack. Nor would there be any, no matter how hard she struggled.

  And the pistol so tauntingly close . . . yet so unreachable!

  Goddammit! she thought. Goddammit all to hell! The fat bitch obviously put it there on purpose. To tease me!

  'Mumph!' Zack was trying to communicate with her.

  Dorothy-Anne quickly shook her head to hush him. It was a mistake. The movement sent new bolts of pain piercing through her skull.

  'You say something?' At the counter, the fat woman had stopped rolling dough and was regarding Dorothy-Anne through narrowed eyes.

  Dorothy-Anne nodded, careful not to move her head too suddenly.

  The woman frowned, as if mulling it over. Then she heaved a deep sigh, clapped flour off her hands, and wiped her fingers on her apron. She waddled over to the table and stood there, hands on her hips. 'Well? You wanna talk?'

  Dorothy-Anne gave a tiny nod.

  'You gonna give me trouble like him?' The woman glanced a scowl at Zack. 'You gonna yell and scream your head off and beg and cry?'

  Dorothy-Anne shook her head.

  'Okay. But you give me any lip?' A fleshy pink forefinger was wagged in Dorothy-Anne's face. 'The tape goes back on. Understood?'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded again, and the woman reached out and yanked the duct tape off her mouth.

  It hurt like hell, but Dorothy-Anne fought down the cry of pain.

  'You got something to say, say it. But I ain't got all day. I don't want my
cannoli dough to dry up.'

  'Who . . . who are you?'

  The woman puffed up. 'They call me Mama Rosa,' she said proudly. 'Others know me simply as Carmine.'

  Dorothy-Anne frowned. 'I don't understand. I thought Carmine was a man's name.'

  'Carmine is a man's name. That's the whole idea. See, no one knows Carmine's identity, and they think he's a man. They believe he's my son.'

  'But . . . why would you want to be known as him?'

  'Because it's what I do. Carmine is a contract killer.'

  Dorothy-Anne opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. She stared at the woman. 'You mean . . . you're hired to kill people?'

  'That's right.'

  'And someone paid you to kill me?'

  'Three million dollars.' Mama Rosa nodded. 'Carmine doesn't come cheap.'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at her, barely able to breathe. 'Who hired you? Do you know?'

  Mama Rosa shrugged. 'Some Chinese.'

  And suddenly all the missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle came together.

  Whoever really owns Pan Pacific, Dorothy-Anne thought. That's who put the contract out on me. They wanted me dead so they could foreclose.

  'I'll pay you six million to spare us.'

  'You can offer me a billion, and I still wouldn't take it. A contract's a contract.'

  My God. She's serious!

  There was another question that needed answering.

  'Are you responsible for my husband's plane crash?' Dorothy-Anne asked.

  Mama Rosa smiled. 'That was Carmine's work. Yes.'

  'And you intend to kill my son, too? A child of ten?'

  'That can't be helped.'

  'But there's no contract out on him! He's innocent!'

  'He could identify me. Now, if you don't mind, I've got to finish cooking.'

  'Why don't you just kill us and get it over with?' Dorothy-Anne snapped. 'Why torture us and make us wait?'

  'Because cooking is what Mama Rosa does best. That's why.'

  'Yes, but what's the point? What are you preparing that's so important at a time like this?'