The Jamaican nodded. “You and some dude named Caldridge.”
Chapter 5
Emma hung up the phone and started toward the front door to wait for Island Security, passing through the house on the way to the sleeping areas. When she entered the bedroom section it felt empty and quiet. Emma was certain that the voodoo priestess and her strange companion hadn’t made it this far into the villa, because they would have crossed paths. She walked to the tall armoire that contained her clothes and opened a drawer beneath the shelf, removing the gun that she’d placed there. She was licensed to carry firearms and had requested to bring hers to the island. Island Security denied the request, but the owner of the villa, a wealthy newspaper mogul, had arranged for one of his bodyguards to leave his weapon behind for her use. As she checked the gun’s clip she noticed that her hands were shaking. The image of the man with the twisted face kept running through her mind. While Emma still didn’t believe in voodoo or zombies, the incident rattled her and his violent destruction of her work had enraged her.
The villa’s doorbell sounded through the house. Island Security was quick, she thought. She carried the weapon with her and walked to the front, passing the voodoo offering on the credenza, reached for the door, then paused. She doubted the two visitors would take the time to ring the bell, but she released the safety on the gun anyway. She twisted the handle and opened the door, expecting to find Duncan Moore, the head of Island Security. Instead, it was a man she knew by reputation but had never met before: Richard Carrow, the lead singer of Rex Rain. He looked at the pistol in her hand.
“Rough night?”
He appeared unruffled at the sight of the gun. He was of medium height, maybe five-foot-eleven and rocker thin. Emma stood five-foot-seven and thought that her 125 pounds would be only about fifty pounds less than what Carrow weighed. His long, straw blond hair was a riot of curls down to his shoulders, and his face sported a five o’clock shadow. He wore faded jeans and an equally faded blue vintage-looking tee shirt with a gold rectangular banner on the front that read radio luxembourg in white letters. The appearance of a famous rocker at her door was almost as surreal as the earlier attack, but at least she knew who he was and that he owned a villa on the island. He held a bottle of liquor in his hand and took a swig from it.
“Sorry about the gun. A man with a machete just tried to attack me,” Emma said.
Carrow looked incredulous. “This is Terra Cay. We don’t have crime here. Illegal activity, yes. Crime, no.”
“There’s a difference?”
He gave her a cocky grin. “One hurts others, the other only hurts oneself.”
“Interesting shade of gray you’ve got going there with your philosophy, but I think machete attacks fall under the crime heading.”
“You look massively angry. Don’t shoot me.” Carrow took another swig of the liquor, looking completely unconcerned.
“He destroyed a week’s worth of work. I was under a tight deadline and now it just got tighter.”
Carrow tried to peer past her. “Was it some sort of crazed landscaper? They’re the only ones I see use machetes. Is he still here?”
Emma stepped out onto the front porch and glanced around the lawn. A soft breeze ruffled her hair and the stone portico felt cool under her bare feet. She heard the leaves rustling in the trees and the frogs making their creaking up-and-down chirping sound. The ocean waves in the distance rushed against the sand, adding a rhythmic pulse. It felt peaceful. Idyllic. And foreign and elemental and ancient. It felt and sounded nothing like the modern world. She headed back to the garage at a fast clip. Carrow trotted along beside her.
“What are you going to do?” he said. Emma scanned the area, watching for signs of the two intruders.
“I’m going to protect my work.”
“What if they’re still out there?”
“Then I’ll deal with them.” For a brief moment Emma hoped that they were out there. She’d love to give them as deep a scare as they had given her.
“And the machete man?” Carrow said. Emma held up the gun.
“Gets shot.”
Carrow grinned. “Remind me not to mess with your work.”
To Emma’s relief the garage area seemed deserted. Neither the woman nor the crazy man had returned. She stepped in, shoved the gun into the waistband of her jeans and reached down to right the table. Carrow put his bottle on another table and grabbed a corner to help her.
They got the table back on its legs and Emma began rooting around in the broken glassware. The native plants, water samples from the mangrove, and three vials of natural algae were destroyed. A small container that held prepared slides was on the ground. The slides were cracked, as if someone had crushed them with a boot heel. She sighed and swallowed as she picked up shards of glass.
“These samples alone took me four full days to acquire. Some are from the mangrove. My company was hired to undertake an extremely lucrative contract to acquire, analyze, and report on them. It’s time sensitive, though. I don’t produce on schedule and we don’t get paid.” She shut off the lights, waved him out of the garage, and pressed a keypad. Ten seconds later the garage door closed. She’d leave it closed for the night.
She swallowed both her anger and her fear. Carrow gave her a sympathetic look and stepped closer. The scent of cologne wafted toward her, mixed with sweat and a smoky smell that wasn’t from cigarettes. He showed her the bottle that he gripped by the neck. Emma leaned in to see it in the dark. The label said laphroaig.
“Whiskey?” she said.
“Scotch. Single malt. One of the best. Try it.” Emma looked at the bottle and felt a moment of déjà vu. It seemed that every man she knew tried to push whiskey on her when the going got rough. She shook her head.
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t you just say that a man with a machete tried to kill you?” He used his tee shirt to wipe off the opening and held it up to her. His eyes were serious.
“You’ve got a point,” she said. She took the bottle and downed a swig. Unlike the whiskey she’d had in the past, this was smooth and rich. Still, she coughed. But only once. “That’s excellent.” She gave it back to him.
His serious look softened. “Yes, it is. I’m Richard Carrow.” He put out his hand. Emma nodded.
“I know. I saw you perform on the Grammy awards. I’m Emma Caldridge.” She shook his hand.
“Did you call Island Security?”
She nodded. “I should go to the front of the house to wait for them.” She started back, this time at a much slower pace, while scanning for any signs of movement. They reached the front door and both of them stepped into the foyer. Carrow’s eyes fell on the mess on the credenza.
“What’s that?”
“A voodoo offering.”
Carrow took a swallow from the bottle. “Are you joking?” Emma shook her head. He moved in closer, peering at the feathers, and frowned. “Martin would know what this meant. Too bad.” He looked at her. “I came here to talk to you about him.”
Emma did her best to follow Carrow’s stream of consciousness. She was fairly certain the Martin that he referred to was a member of Rex Rain, but she couldn’t be sure. Still rattled from her two strange visitors, she was having a hard time focusing on what he was saying.
“I’ve been told that you’re some sort of genius chemist, and I was wondering if you could assist me with a problem I’m having at my villa.”
Emma looked at her watch. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“It’s a really bad problem.” He waved the bottle in the air. “And frankly, I’m at my best at two in the morning.” He spread his arms wide and grinned. “As you see.” He swayed a bit to the side of the hand holding the bottle. It was as if his balance was so precarious that the extra weight was throwing him off. He took another swig. His expression turned serious. “You look really pale. They scared the shit out of you, didn’t they?” Emma hated to admit it, but th
ey had. The vision of the man’s crazy, upturned eyes kept coming back to haunt her.
“That, Mr. Carrow, is an understatement,” she said. He once again offered her the bottle. She took hold of it and downed another swallow without bothering to clean the neck. This one was even better. She felt a pleasant buzz begin, and even looking at the dead rooster didn’t seem so awful.
“Is your problem a chemical one?”
“You could say that.”
Emma was getting a bit frustrated. “Why don’t you just spell it out for me?”
He took a deep breath. “My drummer fell asleep.”
She shrugged. “And?”
“And hasn’t woken up. For over twenty-four hours.”
“Mr. Carrow . . .”
“And if you’ve heard anything about Rex Rain, you’ve heard the party stories, I’m sure.”
Emma had heard the stories about Rex Rain and their legendary drug use. Some of the more fantastic tales involved satanic ritual and devil worship. She’d always dismissed the tabloid reports as gossip of the worst type.
“Well the stories are, for the most part, true,” Carrow said.
“I don’t believe that.”
Carrow looked surprised. “You don’t?”
“Satanic ritual and selling your soul to the devil for a number one hit? Nope. Don’t believe it.”
He smiled. “Okay, well maybe that story isn’t true, but Martin has been known to visit mediums and conduct séances. In fact we have a famous medium staying at the villa right now. He also loves using the Ouija board.” Carrow took a deep breath. “But honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sleep this long. I’ve seen him pass out, mind you, but I don’t think I’ve seen him actually sleep.”
She heard the sound of an engine in the distance. The noise escalated and then lessened as the vehicle drove the curved road that led up the mountain to her rental villa. The house, called Blue Heron, sat on a rise overlooking the ocean in the distance. It had a narrow lap pool, two buildings connected by an open breezeway, and a small koi pond. Her staff consisted of a gardener, a maid, and a cook who lived in a row of one bedroom town houses located at the end of the property behind a stand of trees.
“That’s probably Island Security,” she said. “You’d be better off calling Terra Cay’s doctor. I presume there’s one on the island?”
“I’d rather you come. There’s a pile of powder in the room that I can’t identify.” The noise of the engine grew louder.
“Worried that the doctor will identify it and then he’ll be busted?”
Carrow nodded. “That’s definitely part of it. We’re here to party for the holiday, of course, but also to record. I can’t afford to have him hauled to the mainland to face charges, but if I knew what it was, I’d just sweep it under the rug and call the doctor. What bothers me is that I don’t.” He gave her a pointed look. “And you can believe that I’ve seen it all before, so if I don’t recognize it, then it must be real trouble.” The noise of the car engine whining as it crawled up the steepest part of the hill had grown much louder. Carrow turned his head to listen.
“Please don’t tell Island Security. Duncan Moore’s an ass. He doesn’t like me and he hates Martin.”
Emma didn’t respond. Instead she stashed the gun in the credenza’s cabinet and opened the door. A dark green Jeep pulled into the drive with Moore at the wheel. His small vehicle sported three antennas of various lengths and a green logo of dual palm trees bending toward each other with the word security on the side. Moore killed the engine, got out and walked toward them. He wore a short-sleeved sand-colored shirt and dark green cargo shorts. He gave Carrow a curt nod before turning to Emma.
“You called Security?” he asked. Before she could answer she heard a noise and her name called. She looked over to see Latisha Johnson, the cook, hurrying toward them. Johnson was nearing forty, with thick dark hair that she kept in braids and then wrapped into a bun. She wore a robe and her arms were tightly wrapped around her middle as she approached, holding the robe closed. Latisha looked at each of them, her eyes widening when she recognized Carrow, and then she turned to Emma.
“Someone broke into the garage. I’m sorry to tell you that they tossed your test tubes on the ground.”
Emma nodded. “I know. I called Security.” She indicated Moore.
“You didn’t talk about bottles in a garage,” Moore said. “You said you’d been attacked.”
The cook sucked in her breath. “What?”
Emma told her what had happened. When she was done, she noticed that Carrow looked fascinated, Johnson appalled, and that Moore didn’t look as surprised as she would have expected. He exchanged a look with Johnson, whose face had become set.
“It could have been anyone,” Moore said. “Access to the island is easily accomplished by boat from the mangrove side. The mountain blocks the view of their landing.”
His response struck Emma as pat, safe. If she had to guess, she would have said he was hiding something. She looked at Carrow, whose return glance was filled with speculation. Then he took a swallow of the liquor and cast a suspicious look at Moore. Clearly, he didn’t buy the man’s explanation either.
“Tough to get through the mangrove,” he offered in a mild voice.
Moore bristled at that. “I just said it was possible. There could be other explanations as well.” Carrow gave a noncommittal shrug, which didn’t seem to mollify the Security man.
“He appeared to be suffering from some sort of seizure,” Emma said. “His eyes didn’t focus on me, but upward, and his face was contorted in a tic. And I found this in my hallway.” She stepped back and waved Moore and Johnson into the house.
Johnson gave a low moan. “Oh no, voodoo,” she said, seeing the offering.
Moore snorted. “This voodoo stuff is getting out of hand. Until recently there was very little on the island.”
Terra Cay sat in the middle of a row of islands in the Bahamas that reached down toward Puerto Rico. It was an exclusive enclave of the very rich. Access was only available to those who could afford to rent a house or charter a yacht big enough to handle the open water for days on end. The island had only one small hotel and a hundred villas, some of them for rent. Each renter was required to pay for a minimum staff of three people, including a cook. Everything on the island had to be imported, with the possible exception of the fish sold at the small marketplace. As a result, provisioning a rental villa was costly as well. Emma’s stay was funded in part by a worldwide cosmetic company eager to find a new source of botany to add to their antiaging cream line. Currently, it touted the use of sea kelp as a miracle ingredient.
“But voodoo is practiced on the out islands,” Johnson said. “And in Nassau.”
“Nassau is not Terra Cay,” Moore declared in a lofty manner that Emma found annoying.
Terra Cay was known for its snooty manners. The island’s founding by the English, the extreme wealth of its citizens, and its ironclad rules made for a lovely place to vacation. The surrounding islands were the product of their Caribbean and West Indian ancestry. Carrow had been following the exchange between Moore and Johnson and he glanced at Emma and lifted an eyebrow.
“Don’t many of the staff members on the island practice voodoo?” he said to Johnson, who nodded.
“They do. For many it’s their heritage. Especially the Haitians. They believe that a voodoo priest or priestess can cure any illness, even cancer.”
“Which is ridiculous,” Moore interjected. Emma noticed that Johnson pressed her lips together. There was an awkward silence.
“Would you search through the house with me?” she said. “Once we’ve done that I’ll lock it up.” She looked at Carrow. “Then I’ll be free to go to your house.”
Moore looked at his watch. “It’s almost two-thirty in the morning.”
“Someone’s always awake on the West Hill,” Carrow said. Moore frowned even harder. Emma thought Carrow had made mention of the West Hill specif
ically to annoy him. “I’ll wait in my Jeep. Whenever you’re ready,” he said to Emma. He sketched a wave at Moore and then gave the cook a deep bow. “Ms. Johnson, I recall your excellent cooking at the last party at the Blue Heron. It’s a pleasure to see your lovely face again.” Emma was astonished to see the solid, dependable Johnson almost flutter like a schoolgirl.
“And you, Mr. Carrow,” she said. Carrow sauntered off.
“Let’s look around,” Moore said. “I’d also like you to come to the office tomorrow so that we can file an official report.”
“I’ll clean up the mess,” Johnson said.
“Wait.” Emma took out her cell phone and snapped a photo. “Okay. Thank you.” Johnson bustled off to the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later all vestiges of the voodoo offering were gone; they had canvassed the house and found nothing. Emma walked with Moore to his Jeep. Twenty feet away she saw Carrow sitting in his, thumbing away on a smartphone. He didn’t look up. Moore climbed back into his vehicle.
“Watch yourself with him,” he said. “Carrow and his group are wild characters. You don’t strike me as that type.” Emma smiled.
“Thanks. I’ll keep my wits about me.” She crossed her fingers and held them up for Moore to see. “Promise.” He looked somewhat mollified as he threw the Jeep into gear and drove off.
She strolled up to Carrow.
“Moore done with his excuses?” he said.
Emma nodded. “I saw that you didn’t believe the mangrove story. What do you think is going on here?” He slipped a key into the ignition and gave her a serious look.
“I think someone is sending you a message.”
Chapter 6
Carrow handed her the scotch, the top now screwed on, and threw the Jeep into first gear.
“Buckle up. We have to go straight down the hill and back up. I nearly lost my bass player on the lower curve just last week. Wouldn’t have been a huge loss, you understand, but in this case I’d hate to deprive the world of that brain.”
Dead Asleep Page 3