A Wild and Lonely Place

by Marcia Muller

  “I guess this is good-bye. I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  “I should thank you. Your problem gave my daughter occasion to break her years-long silence.”

  “She does care, you know. The reason she left was so she wouldn’t end up hating you for the way you live.”

  “And I care, too, in my fashion. I was not a particularly good father, and probably never should have been one. Unfortunately, few of us are able to resist the temptation to find out what manner of offspring we will create.” His smile was tinged with melancholy. “Oh well, perhaps after tonight Regina will realize I’m not such a heartless old reprobate.”

  “She already knows that.” Halfway out of the Jeep I paused. “When they find out Habiba’s gone, will Schechtmann and his people give you trouble?”

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Young woman, don’t worry about me! This old schtveinhund has learned many a new trick over the years.”

  I believed he had.

  * * *

  The tall mangroves leaned outward from the edge of the sheltered cove, their high-arching aerial roots knitting land and sea together in a chaotic tangle. I waited beneath them, watching the jetty and allowing the mosquitoes that bred there to feed on me. The trees’ spindly trunks and overarching branches cast grotesque shadows as light began to show in the east; when they shifted in the wind their sighs sounded like a dying woman’s last breath. It put a sharp edge on my tension, and I repeatedly glanced at my watch. Four twenty-seven, and the minute hand didn’t seem to be moving.

  Maybe the watch was broken. It was guaranteed to be waterproof, had stood me in good stead in the health club pool. But what if its recent hard service had been too much? What if I was late? Maybe Habiba had come and gone. Or come and been apprehended by Schechtmann’s guards. Maybe the game I’d been playing with her in the living room at the compound had been too obvious—

  Stop it, McCone! This is no time to panic.

  Eastern sky getting dangerously light now. How much longer before sunrise? Long enough for Habiba to get here and for us to swim to the boat? What if—

  Movement on the jetty. Habiba’s dark head appeared. She pulled herself up, slipped on the loose stones, took a tumble down the other side. It must have hurt, but she made no sound. Just got up, brushed herself off, and kept coming.

  Brave little thing, I thought as I kicked off the rubber thongs and stepped out of the mangroves’ shelter.

  Habiba saw me and began to run. We met halfway, and she threw her arms around my thighs. “You really came for me,” she whispered.

  I pulled her arms away, squatted down. “No time to talk, we’ve got to move fast. Can you swim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I stripped off the borrowed shirt and dropped it on the sand. Let the tide take it. Let Schechtmann’s guards find it. I didn’t care.

  Habiba stripped off her T-shirt and shorts. Underneath she wore a pink tank suit. “I knew we’d have to swim,” she said. “When I told my dad I wanted to go home to Grams, he said there wasn’t any way off the island except to swim, and if I tried that the sharks’d get me.”

  And Zebediah Altagracia thought he’d been a bad father!

  “Don’t worry about sharks,” I said. “They’re a lot farther out to sea than the boat that’s waiting for us.”

  Habiba stiffened. “When Uncle Klaus took my mom and me on the boat back home—”

  “I know, Habiba, but we can’t talk about that now. We can’t even think about it. All our energy has to go into swimming. You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go.” I took her hand and we waded into the water. The bottom was rocky, and I fought for balance. Twice Habiba stumbled; once she almost pulled me down with her. When the water was thigh high I ducked down and floated; she followed my lead.

  I said, “I’m going to put you in a lifeguard’s hold. Do you know what that is?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll tow you. You help out by kicking. When we get on the other side of those rocks, we’re going to drift for a few minutes till we see a light flash on the boat. Then we’ll paddle toward it as fast as we can. I won’t let go of you; we won’t be separated at any time. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I got hold of her around the shoulders. She was very light and swimming to the other side of the rocks was easy. Of course, if we had to move fast—

  Follow your own advice. Put all your energy into the job at hand.

  Beyond the rocks the current was stronger. I kicked hard to maintain position, reminded Habiba to do the same. The horizon was distinguishable now, but I couldn’t make out the shape of the speedboat. I swept my eyes back and forth, watching for Lloyd Fisher’s signal. Habiba was facing toward shore; I told her to keep an eye out for activity at the compound.

  Minutes passed—more than I was comfortable with.

  Maybe Lloyd had taken off and left us. Maybe Regina’s information about him had been wrong and I shouldn’t have trusted him.

  In a scared little voice Habiba said, “Something’s happening.”

  “What?”

  “The lights just went on in my cottage.”

  Dammit! Where was Lloyd?

  “Somebody’s running out of there! I think it’s my nanny.”

  Shit!

  “She’s going up to the big house!”

  I resisted the impulse to look around. Kept scanning the sea. Where was Lloyd? Where?

  A light flashed—a good distance away, but not an impossible one.

  “Don’t panic, Habiba. We’re on our way. We’ll be at the boat before they start looking for you.”

  I began towing her for all I was worth.

  * * *

  “Here, dry yourself off. You don’t want to catch a chill.” Lloyd tossed a towel to me, wrapped Habiba in another.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “They’ve already discovered Habiba’s missing.”

  “By the time they figure out she’s not on the island we’ll be long gone.” He pulled an oar from behind the seats and handed it to me. “Habiba, you’re gonna have to crouch down on the floor in front of the seat there, so you won’t get clipped on the head. Sharon and I are gonna paddle the boat out a little farther. That way when the engine starts it won’t alert them.”

  She shivered and slipped down while Lloyd got the second oar. Then we set to paddling. I’d thought my arms ached before, but now every stroke grated. My head ached, too—a sharp throbbing in my sinus cavities. And my back—Jesus, was I turning into an old woman? I’d be forty in September. Forty wasn’t old. Only the beginning of the prime of life, if you listened to Jane Fonda.

  Of course, in the fifteen years prior to her fortieth birthday, Jane hadn’t been stabbed, almost drowned, suffered numerous contusions and a couple of concussions, and once been shot in the ass. What did she know, anyway?

  I paddled stoically, too proud to grunt and moan as I wanted to.

  After what seemed like an interminable time but was probably only five minutes, Lloyd said to stop. I handed him my oar, nearly whacking him in the face with it, and he stowed both. “Put Habiba on your lap and belt youself in,” he told me. “We’re about to motate.”

  I pulled the little girl from where she crouched on the floor. She didn’t speak, didn’t seem able to help me, either. Anxiously I looked at her face. She was pale, and her eyes were blank and glazed.

  “You okay, kid?”

  She nodded unconvincingly.

  “Just hang in there. The bad part’s almost over.”

  The speedboat’s engine boomed in the silence. I barely had time to secure the belt before we took off with a space-age thrust that pushed us deep into the seat’s padding. We were motating, all right.

  The bad part’s almost over, I repeated to myself.

  Some three hours later those words would make me a liar.

  * * *

  At sh
ortly after nine the departures terminal at Princess Juliana was jammed. Long lines snaked toward the ticket counters and overflowed onto the sidewalk. One glum group of teenagers sat on their bags in the middle of the floor, making everyone detour around them. Many people looked rumpled and tired, as if they’d been up all night. In this crowd Habiba and I wouldn’t stand out, in spite of our weariness and the cheap, ill-fitting T-shirt and shorts I’d bought for her from a sidewalk vendor after Lloyd Fisher dropped us on the Philipsburg quay.

  Gage Renshaw had told me I’d recognize the courier bringing Habiba’s passport by his RKI blazer. I spotted him quickly, leaning against the wall by the entrance to the duty-free shops, the too-heavy garment slung over his shoulder, sweat beading his forehead. Habiba and I threaded our way over there hand in hand, and I showed him my identification.

  He examined it, nodded, and removed an envelope from the inside pocket of the blazer. As he handed it to me he said, “Looks like you’ve given me a vacation on the company.”

  “Staying down for a few days?” I checked the passport and placed it with my own in the straw bag I’d also bought from the vendor.

  “I’m stuck here for however long it takes to settle it.” He motioned around the terminal.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “They went ahead and struck.”

  “What? Oh, no!” Vaguely I remembered reading in the San Francisco paper about a possible strike of American Airlines flight attendants, but that had been last week when I didn’t know I’d be flying anywhere, so I hadn’t paid much attention. “How’d you get here?”

  “Continental. But the firm booked me an open return, since they didn’t know when you’d show, and now all the seats’re filled with people from the flights American canceled yesterday.” He shrugged philosophically. “Guess I’ll check into a hotel and find the nearest casino.”

  I turned and looked at the American counter. The line was still out the door, but I’d reserved first-class seats; there was a shorter line at that window. I started to speak to the courier and found he’d disappeared into the crowd.

  Dammit! I could have used his help. Of course, he wasn’t aware of the seriousness of our situation; RKI shared information with its employees on a need-to-know basis. I glanced down at Habiba. She was watching me, solemn and a little scared. I took her hand again. “Don’t worry. We’ll go talk to the ticket agent.”

  The agent wasn’t optimistic. “The aircraft is here,” he said in the soft cadence of the islands, “and we are trying to put together a crew. If we can do that, your flight will leave on time. If not, we will put you up at one of the nearby hotels—at our expense, of course.”

  I gripped the counter, fighting panic. By now Schechtmann and his people had figured out that I’d removed Habiba from Jumbie Cay; how long before they also figured out my probable course of action? How long before they searched the airport, canvassed the hotels?

  “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

  No point in taking it out on the agent; he looked as haggard as I felt. “I’m okay. When will you know if the flight’s going?”

  “Check with me in an hour.” He glanced at our passports, issued tickets and boarding passes. I tried to take that as a positive sign.

  Habiba grabbed my hand again and walked beside me, head bowed, as we went to a second window to pay our departure taxes. This was the point I’d been concerned about: would they examine her passport and see she’d never entered? But a person who is leaving legally from an airport is presumed to have arrived the same way; the woman in the booth took my money, stamped the passports, and returned them with receipts tucked inside.

  Habiba was clutching at my trousers. I looked down and saw she was still staring at the floor. “Hey,” I said, squatting in front of her, “are you feeling okay?”

  She shrugged.

  “You know what? We need to eat something. That’ll make us both feel better.”

  She didn’t look too convinced, but she nodded.

  I took her hand again and steered her toward a stairway leading to the restaurant. It too was jammed, but we found a corner table and ordered cheeseburgers. The room was hot and muggy; ceiling fans gave little relief. All around us people talked in loud voices; some actually seemed to be enjoying the situation and others, who had probably been here all night, were on their way to becoming obnoxiously drunk. Through the windows overlooking the field I could see our plane—a 727 around which there was a suspicious lack of activity.

  Habiba remained silent, but she ate her burger and fries with concentration, then asked for a chocolate sundae. I forced myself to eat and drank three cups of coffee, but I kept blanking out, my eyes focusing on the black-and-white floor tiles. The what-ifs echoing in my mind threatened to drown out the din around us. When Habiba finished the sundae, I tucked some bills under the edge of my plate and said, “Let’s go see if they know anything more about when our flight’s leaving.”

  She nodded and got up, slipping her hand into mine as we left the table.

  Downstairs the terminal was even more crowded, and tempers were fraying. A man in a business suit began to berate the teenagers for blocking the center of the floor; a woman in a sequined T-shirt was screaming at a ticket agent. I started toward the first-class window, but Habiba hung back, tugging on my hand. I glanced at her, saw her eyes were filled with panic.

  “What? Who do you see?”

  “One of the guards from Uncle Klaus’s. Over there by the shops talking to a man with a broom.”

  Surreptitiously I looked that way. A tall man in a khaki shirt and shorts was in conversation with a janitor. He held out his hand at Habiba’s height, then moved it to mine. Describing us. The janitor frowned, then nodded and motioned at the stairs to the restaurant. The man in khaki handed him a tip and pushed through the crowd.

  “We’re out of here.” I started toward the automatic doors. For a moment Habiba froze, holding me back, then she trotted along. Taxis lined the curb; I headed for the nearest one, but turned when I spotted a familiar face beneath a Dodgers cap.

  “Kenny! Remember me?”

  He squinted. “…You the lady I took to Miz Altagracia’s.” His expression wasn’t particularly warm; I supposed he feared that I was about to foist more religious tracts on him.

  “Can you take us there now? Double the fare, since there’re two of us?”

  “You betcha, get in.”

  As Kenny closed the backseat door behind us, Habiba moaned. “There’s Uncle Klaus in that taxi! He sees us!”

  I looked where she pointed. It was Schechtmann, all right, staring at us from a green Datsun. Kenny got in and I leaned forward. “You see that green car that’s backing out? He’s going to follow us. Can you lose him?”

  Kenny glanced at the Datsun and laughed. “Does a dog got fleas? That Slow Eddie Frazier. Hold on!”

  He reversed the Toyota and kept backing, clear through the driveway marked In Only. Made a sweeping turn in front of an oncoming limo. Jammed the car into first gear and gunned it through a narrow alley between a convenience store and a gas station, cackling maniacally all the while.

  I looked at Habiba. Her eyes were livelier than I’d seen them, and her lips were parted.

  Kenny sped between two rows of buildings. Made a screeching left into a side street. I peered through the rear window and saw no sign of the green taxi.

  “Slow Eddie, he still tryin’ to get outa the airport,” Kenny assured me.

  Next we were cruising at a stately speed up the driveway of a gaudy pink hotel. The palm trees sported Christmas wreaths in spite of it being May, and electrified reindeer sculptures cavorted on the lawn. Kenny saluted the doorman, who looked like one of Santa’s elves, and we turned down a service road. When we emerged from the hotel grounds we were a block from the main highway.

  “Hunky-dory, huh?” our driver asked.

  “Uh-huh!” Habiba exclaimed—and actually smiled.

  Twenty

  Goats scatter
ed and ran as Kenny wheeled the taxi into Regina Altagracia’s yard. The front door of the small whitewashed house opened almost immediately, and the tall woman stepped out, shading her eyes with her hand. After having met her father, I could see her resemblance to him: they had the same long bones, straight nose, and strong jaw. The same steely will, too. She came over as Kenny stopped the car and peered in at us.

  Kenny asked, “You want me to wait?”

  Before I could say no, Regina told him, “Yes. I’ll bring you some fresh-squeezed lemonade.”

  The driver gave her a look that said lemonade was not his drink of choice and why didn’t she offer him a beer, then leaned back resignedly and reached for the radio’s knob. Habiba and I got out and followed Regina inside.

  “So this is the young lady you came all this way for,” she said, leaning down and tipping Habiba’s chin up so she could study her face. “I’m very glad to see you.”

  Habiba looked wary and remained silent.

  I said, “I think Habiba’s tired. We’ve had…quite an adventure.”

  “I see. Would you like to lie down, young lady?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Then come with me. I’ll put you in my bedroom, where we’ll be able to hear you if you need anything.” She took the little girl’s hand and led her from the room. Habiba looked anxiously over her shoulder at me. I smiled reassuringly and sank into a chair.

  It seemed a decade since I’d last been in this room—that much had happened in the past eighteen hours. Eighteen rough hours with no sleep, little food, and too much grueling activity. And now…I leaned forward, my face in my hands, unable to imagine what still lay before us.

  Regina called, “I’ll take your driver his lemonade, and then we’ll talk.”

  “I don’t think he needs to wait. We’re likely to be here for a while.”

  “Yes, I heard about the strike. But you don’t want him leaving here; he knows where you are and he can be bought.”

  “…Right.” Weariness was making me stupid.

  Regina passed through the room with a big plastic tumbler, returned, and went into the kitchen again. When she came back she was carrying a bottle of brandy and a glass. I stared at it.