Now he was pointing the gun at my chest, leaning toward me, his expression crazed-but crazy as portrayed by TV mobsters: eyes wide, not glazed, screaming his lines not because he’d snapped, but because he was scared.
I knew it then-he wouldn’t shoot. Not if I gave him a way out. The phony berserker is a bullying technique. It’s used to dodge fights, and intimidate those naive enough to fall for the act. Vance had the act down. He was a coward, and he wanted out. But who told him that I’d helped Shay? How much did he know?
“Give me the video, or I’ll splatter you all over the wall. I mean it! I want to see who my wife was fucking.”
I said, “Video? I don’t even own a TV, pal.”
“Don’t play dumb. I know it’s here. Shay-shay didn’t tell you?” He had a nervous, staccato laugh. “The girls got another e-mail tonight. Their island boyfriend kept a copy, and now he wants the rest of his money. If I’ve got to pay the puke, I should at least be able to see if Corey got her money’s worth.”
I stared at Varigono for long seconds, the smell of kerosene strong around me, aware of the stove’s pilot light, concerned about what this jerk had destroyed next door. Finally, I turned my back to him, saying, “The only thing I’ll give you is five minutes to get out. Your wife is Shay’s friend-that’s the only reason.”
As Varigono hollered for me to stop, I tossed the axe handle aside, walking toward the door, hoping I was right about him, but tense, now hearing real craziness in his voice at the mention of Corey, thinking maybe, just maybe, he could do it.
“Why are you covering for them, man? You’re a guy, you can’t understand? She’s my wife! It’s my right! Hey… hey! I’m talking to you, motherfucker!”
I was walking out the screen door, ignoring him until I heard the ignition pop of the propane stove. That made me stop. I turned.
Oh no…
Along with the derringer, Varigono was now holding a torch made from papers he’d twisted into a cone. I watched it blaze when he held it to the burner, the expression on his face changing from crazed to triumphant.
“Yeah… that’s better. So finally, I got your attention. Shay told me that about you, too-how much you like this old shack and your little pet fishes. That you’re a fucking weirdo with your microscopes and books.”
Shay, I was learning, did not always speak in glowing terms about her godfather.
Vance said, “You know the difference between arson and an accident? Don’t worry, ’cause I do.” He used the gun to indicate the mess he’d created. “You and me got into a fight, and this place is a fire trap. That’s what the investigators will decide.”
I said, “Your word against mine? They canned you for a reason. You don’t think they’ll check the files?”
“I’ll risk it.” He extended the torch, threatening to light towels next to the stove. “I’d rather burn the place down than let you and your weirdo buddies sit around and watch Corey naked, fucking some stranger. I know it’s here someplace. So, last chance. Where!”
Enough. I walked toward him, an unconscious reaction. “Vance, the only person your wife fucked was herself when she married you.” The adrenal chill was pumping. Why the hell had I dropped the axe handle?
He held torch flames to the towels. “I’ll do it.”
“Then do it.”
“I’ll shoot you, motherfucker!” He leveled the tiny pistol at my chest.
“Go ahead.”
He tried. Got the hammer back as I locked my hands on his wrist, lifting and twisting. The derringer made a concise firecracker whap near my ear, putting a round through the roof. I pivoted with good leverage, and stripped the gun from his fingers, then dislocated his elbow with a come-along that dropped him to his knees as he made a sharp, thin whistling scream.
He dropped the torch, too. I watched blue flames sprint across the wooden floor-pine resin instantly aromatic because of the heat. Panic. Kerosene isn’t explosive, but yellow pine is. My brain projected an image: flames colored by lab chemicals; firemen hosing charred ruins. Vance deserved to burn with the house-justice. My first instinct was to get to my floor safe and rescue my valuables.
It took three long steps to get to the bedroom. In that brief span, the panic passed. I reassessed. The fire was spreading, but it hadn’t yet bitten into wood. There was still time.
Seconds later, I was back with blankets from my closet and a fire extinguisher. The blankets worked. Snuffed out the flames before they got to the wood. Lucky-lucky because I’d stopped the fire, and also because I didn’t have to use the fire extinguishers. They leave a powdery mess, and I already had enough chaos to deal with.
Now my phone was ringing, too. Not yet 5 a.m. and someone was calling? Not Tomlinson. If he was coherent, he was aboard No Mas, watching for me to signal him with the flashlight. I ignored the phone as Vance Varigono sat on the floor, sobbing non sequiturs that begged for understanding but not the police. Now he was a victim of circumstances filled with remorse-another act.
I knelt, pocketed the derringer, and did a quick pat down. Wallet, cell phone, keys. I pocketed the cell phone, too, before I put my lips near his ear and began to whisper. It surprised him, and his eyes widened. I mentioned his wife. I referred to Shay. The last thing I said was, “Vance, I want the subject to disappear. If it doesn’t? You will.”
It jolted him. He nodded, not risking eye contact. The man was getting to his feet as I hurried next door to the lab.
It wasn’t too bad. Varigono had riffled my desk, emptied a file case, but the aquariums were untouched, and the sea life within looked healthy. The power hadn’t been off long enough to do damage. Aquarium aerators create ozone, and I took several big breaths, letting good air dilute the adrenal burn. Then I swung the office chair around and dumped my body into it, exhausted.
I had a pounding headache. With eyes closed, a schematic of the back of my brain strobed with each beat of my heart. I sat, taking slow, deep breaths. The pain eased as tension faded.
It didn’t last.
The VHF radio was still on, and a familiar voice came over, hailing me. It was Jeth Nicholes, Dinkin’s Bay fishing guide and a close friend. He’d tried telephoning me, he said. So had my cousin, Ransom. Using the illegal base station in his garage was a last resort before driving to the marina.
“There’s been an accident, Da-da-Doc. Nothing too serious, but you mind calling me on the land line?”
It was serious, though, I knew. These days, Jeth seldom stutters.
Shay Money was in the emergency room, Jeth told me, maybe already in surgery. Around 3 a.m., she’d skidded off the road and hit a tree, racing to keep up with the ambulance that was taking her friend Corey Varigono to the hospital.
Corey was in critical condition, he said. Drug overdose.
Shay’s condition was unknown.
7
Shay used her finger to signal me closer, and whispered in a voice hoarse from sleep, “The black hole’s trying to drag me back-you believe me now? It won’t let me be something I’m not.”
I touched my lips to a part of her temple not covered by surgical bandage and replied, “You’re giving up so easy? Now you’re even acting like a rich girl. You’ve got the curse thing backward, sister.”
She smiled… winced at the pain, then pointed to her water. It was next to the hospital bed beneath monitors. I held the glass while she used the flexible straw, only a curtain separating us from the woman asleep in the next bed. Just us, but we kept our voices low.
Michael and his mother had exited as I entered, like changing shift. Shay’s future mother-in-law… maybe. As we passed, the fiance stared through me, not a nod, but the mother locked eyes and scowled. Heavy, rectangular brow. Her son had inherited the elongated earlobes. No way to know if she scowled for a reason, or if she was one of those angry people whose face had devolved into a warning to the world.
But Shay dismissed them quickly, whispering, “Understand now why Mrs. Jonquil drives me bonkers?” before demanding
a report on Corey. As I answered, Shay’s eyes were intense, alert for lies. Reassuring. Even after slamming her convertible into a palm tree, her brain was sharp.
“Doctors haven’t downgraded Corey’s condition, so she’s hanging in there,” I said.
“That’s all you know?”
“That’s all.”
“How’s her family doing?”
“I’ve never met them, so I can’t say. The waiting room’s full. Your friend Beryl’s here. Liz, too.”
“Did they… say anything to you?”
I caught the hesitation. “I don’t think they saw me.”
“What about Vance?”
I replied, “Vance,” in a flat tone, not ready to tell her we’d met.
“Corey’s husband. That jerk. When I found her, the side of her face was all swollen, and her eye was turning black. I told the EMTs and the cops about him. That son of a bitch.”
I put my hand on her wrist. “The nurse said I’d have to leave if you get upset.”
“Okay, okay. But I show up at three a.m., his truck’s gone, and she’s nearly dead. I’ll bet right now he’s out making sure he has an alibi so he can pretend like nothing happened.”
A girl who knew how small-time criminals operated. Yes, her brain was functioning fine after a very close call.
Along with scalp lacerations and facial bruises, Shay had a closed head injury-medicalspeak for an injury that could be minor or could make her a vegetable. She’d been unconscious for at least a couple of minutes, so there were more tests to be done. But there were no obvious signs of brain trauma.
So I made her sip some water and calm down before telling me what had happened.
Around 2:30 a.m., Shay had checked her cell and found a hysterical message from Corey. After trying Corey’s phone, she drove to the Varigono home, where she’d discovered her friend unconscious on the couch. EMT response was fast, but Corey stopped breathing just before the ambulance arrived.
No wonder the mood was grim in the ICU waiting room.
“I took CPR, but, Christ, I couldn’t tell if I was helping her or not.
She vomited a couple of times. It was awful! Doc?” Shay turned her head slightly-painful. “We promised we’d be straight with each other, so you’ve got to tell me. Is Corey dead?”
Her face was swollen, raw in spots from the air bag. Skin around her eyes was pale purple, edged with magenta. Not too bad. “Raccoon eyes” is another medical term, but the girl was going to be okay.
I replied, “Corey’s alive. That’s the truth. You did everything you could to help her. That’s all a friend can do.”
“I did something else.” Shay touched a finger to her lips, whispering.
“Corey left a note, and I took it. It’s in my purse. No one’s read it but me. Take a look.”
It was to her parents.
Papi and Mami
I am so tired and afraid all the time and I’ve done something I know will never go away. You were wonderful and I never wanted to make you ashamed. I am so sorry and tired of being afraid. Forgive me…
It was written on paper torn from a spiral notebook. Written in a rush by a woman desperate for relief.
In the world’s most dissimilar languages, pet words for mother and father are touchingly similar. The Chinese say baba and mama. In Arabic, they are ami and omi. When conquistadors invaded, Aztec children ran screaming for apa and ama.
The first two words we learn as infants echo humanity’s first words. They are the sound of primal bleating; a child’s plea for help. Those two words are hardwired in the womb, and we carry them with us to the grave. It is known, from voice recorders recovered at crash sites, that mama is often the last word a pilot speaks.
Corey had called for help, but silently, as proud people sometimes do.
I folded the note as Shay said, “Was I wrong to take it? A suicide attempt… all I could think about was how bad it would look on her record. She’s given up on the acting thing, but the design department loves her at Chico’s. Without the note, they can’t prove it wasn’t accidental, can they?”
I said, “You did the right thing,” as I returned the note to her purse. “She needs help and protection but, yeah, I think Corey will thank you-” Then I said, “Hey,” watching her yawn. “Enough for now. I’ll come back this afternoon.”
“But I don’t want you to go. I’m not sleepy.”
Yes, she was. The nurse had also told me she’d been given a painkiller. But the girl reached and took my hand, something else on her mind.
“I’ve been a good friend to everyone but you, Doc. I needed to say that. And apologize.”
“I’ve got no complaints.”
“But I haven’t been straight. Even now. The real reason I missed Corey’s call was because I was at the computer. There was an e-mail waiting when I got home. He wants more money. The full quarter million. He knows my wedding’s a week from Sunday. If he doesn’t get the money by Friday, he’ll… he’ll…” The girl closed her eyes and touched fingers to her head. “He’s going to put the video on the Internet. That’s what Corey meant, the part about her parents being ashamed.”
“I see.” I gave it some time, as if surprised by the news, then said, “But maybe he did us a favor.”
Her expression read, You got to be kidding.
“Think about it. At least he showed his hand-better now than later. And he gave us time, seven days. We have space to deal with it.”
“But I don’t have the money, Doc. And… there’s something else. My bridesmaids got the same e-mail. They knew from the beginning. The four of us chipped in to pay the hundred and nine thousand.”
I sat back in mock disbelief. “Dex didn’t leave a fat insurance policy?”
“All that man left me was a couple of guns, a junker Cadillac, and some real bad memories. Dumb, I knew you didn’t believe me. But it was the only thing I could think of.” She squeezed my fingers, her grip childlike. “I lied to you, pal.”
I smiled. “So what? Compartmentalization-the smart way to handle it. I would’ve done the same.”
Again, she squeezed.
“If I was smart, I wouldn’t be in this mess-I think Michael knows.
Vance stole Corey’s password and read the e-mail before she did. Michael hasn’t mentioned it, but Vance told him something. I can feel it, the way he looks at me now. There’s not going to be a wedding.”
“Did he tell you it’s off?”
“While I’m in a hospital bed? No, he’ll wait.”
“What about his mother? Would he have told her?”
“Uh-uh. If he had, the only reason she’d come to the hospital is to spit on me. Mrs. Jonquil’s French, not Swiss, and a serious Catholic. The woman wouldn’t be here if she knew.”
“Were there files attached to the e-mail?”
She moved her eyes. No.
“How was it worded?”
“What I just told you. He wants the rest of the money.”
“Can you remember specifics?”
“I should, I read the damn thing a dozen times before I trashed it. It was kinda like the first one, the way he tried to be clever. It went, ‘Some vacation memories are priceless, so your vacation video is a bargain. Either pay the rest of the money, or…’ No, that’s not right.” She thought for a moment. “No, he said, ‘Pay the balance or you’ll be sinning with your new boyfriends on the Internet-’ It went like that.”
I said, “Sinning. That’s a strange way to put it.”
“Yeah, he’s nasty clever. Called me a slut-that was in the subject line. And he said ‘porn sites,’ not Internet. But he didn’t attach any more video files.”
Like before-it wasn’t just about the money. The blackmailer got a charge out of humiliating victims.
“Is there a chance Michael or his pals can retrieve the earlier files if they go hunting through your computers?”
“No. We trashed everything. Then I found a special software that we all used to make sure it
stays gone.”
“That includes his latest e-mail?”
She nodded.
“What about the other girls?”
“They got rid of it while we were still talking on the phone. But poor Corey, she didn’t know that Vance had already snooped.”
I said, “In that case, Michael doesn’t really know anything.”
“Of course he does… or soon will. He’ll find out the girls and I are being blackmailed about something bad enough we already paid a chunk of the quarter million. That and whatever else Vance slapped out of Corey before she OD’d. He’ll know about the video. There’s no getting around it.”
I looked into her eyes for a long second before saying, “Video? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What video?”
Shay stared back, her expression blank. Huh?
I said it again, deadpan. "What video?”
She continued to stare. “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
She tried to sit, but I placed my hands on her shoulders until she was lying back.
“But they’ll know.”
“They don’t know anything. Michael and his fraternity pals never saw what’s on that cassette. Neither did you. Neither did your bridesmaids. I have it. No one’s going to get it. So, as of now, it doesn’t exist.”
“But Vance read the e-mail-”
“An e-mail doesn’t prove anything. Some freak in the Caribbean is hounding you about a film he doesn’t have, and about a night that never happened.”
The girl took a deep breath and settled back, thinking about it. “My God, I’d give anything if it was true. But… but how do I explain why we paid all that money? Michael can check my bank-” She stopped, her voice turning inward. Her expression changed. “Wait… we have separate accounts. Same with Beryl, Liz, and their guys. We all chipped in, so we didn’t have to dig into our wedding accounts. They can’t check. But what about Vance and Corey-”
“Vance is a loser and liar. They had a fight last night. I’m sure it wasn’t their first. He’s jealous, pathological, so he made up a bunch of crap as an excuse for hitting his wife. You got involved after hearing Corey’s phone message.”
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