Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  I answered, “Good morning. Nice day, huh?”

  The man replied, “Aw’right, aw’right,” turning toward the kitchen to bring our tea.

  SENEGAL FIRTH was explaining why Sir James probably wouldn’t join us for breakfast, but would come around later for a Bloody Mary in the library. “He sleeps in on Mondays. Always has, for as long as I’ve known him.”

  “What’s special about Mondays?”

  “He didn’t tell you about his workout routine? I’m surprised. He’s very proud of himself. Six days a week, he does swimming, jumping jacks, and stretches, then marches up and down those terrible steps an incredible number of times. I’m not exaggerating, Dr. Ford, when I say my legs are absolutely on fire after just one trip from the beach to the house. But Hooker does it every morning of his life, when he’s in residence . . . except for Mondays.”

  I asked again, “Why Mondays?” because her emphasis invited the question.

  Firth had a nice laugh: eyes closed, nodding her head, white teeth showing as she touched a hand to her lips.

  “Because Hooker’s a man of precise habits. He doesn’t take exercise on Mondays because Sunday night is ‘grog night.’ It’s something that goes back to the regimental mess when he was in K.L. It’s the only night of the week he allows himself to drink to excess. And he does! The old dear gets happily, song-singing pissed on whiskey. So he sleeps in Monday mornings, steels himself with a Bloody Mary, then spends the day in his smoking jacket working in the garden—he’s crackers about gardening and plants, particularly orchids. But come Tuesday, bright and early, his regimen of discipline and exercise starts all over again.

  “I’ve known him since I was a little girl, and I adore him,” she continued. “More important, I’d trust him with my life. My father was an artillery officer stationed at Ouakam Military Base in Dakar, Senegal— this was back when Senegal was still a French colony. Hooker and father met there, and they became chums—” She chuckled, buttering a piece of toast. “—despite Hooker’s bias against all things French. Or maybe it was because of it.”

  I said, “You’re French?”

  “My namesake’s African because I was born there. But I lived in France until I couldn’t stand it anymore—nothing against the country, I love France. Family problems, I’m afraid.”

  Her father was a difficult man, she explained. She was the youngest of six children, and never got along with the man.

  “When I was seventeen, I moved to London and worked as an au pair. Hooker became a sort of Dutch uncle. He and his late wife were great advocates of mine. By that time, my father was aide to the mayor of Champagne. Father had a live-in mistress, yet he refused to divorce my mother, or pay child support. So I brought suit against him. I was at university by then. It took years, but I finally won the case.”

  I said, “You sued your own father?” and immediately regretted my tone.

  Firth had been uncharacteristically outgoing for a Brit, but now her eyes changed. It was like two chestnut windows slamming closed.

  “Dr. Ford, I’ve spent my political life fighting for the rights of children, and for people who’ve been disenfranchised by traditions that should have been abandoned back in the days when floggings were outlawed.

  “As an aide to a member of Parliament, I helped write the Parental Rights and Obligations Act. I personally championed the Prostitution of Minors Act, which provides penal measures for child predators. Yet you find it surprising that as a university student I was willing to fight for the rights of my brothers and sisters?”

  I said, “I apologize, Ms. Firth. I spoke without thinking.”

  Her shield remained in place. “No, Dr. Ford, your reaction was instinctive—and very typical of men. Fortunately, not all men are typical.”

  We sat facing the sea. I was fumbling for a response when, thankfully, a voice from behind us said, “Already on the subject of male domination and politics, are we? Dear girl, will you do me the greatest of favors and please delay the discussion until staff brings me my medicine?”

  It was Sir James, crossing the terrace in slippers and a silk bathrobe, with a towel around his neck. The towel, I realized, was packed with ice. He gave us both a sharp look. “I would have bet the treasury that you two would either trust each other or hate each other at first sniff. Appears I was right.”

  The woman said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, James.”

  “Really? Then why the flushed face?” He looked at me. “Senegal turns the color of a pale rose whenever she’s excited—”

  “Hooker!”

  “I was about to say, when you’re excited and upset, if you’d only let me finish. At any rate, I strongly advise that you two postpone further sniffing until we’ve discussed our mutual problem. Afterward, we can talk about—” He abandoned the sentence, and smiled as our server approached, carrying a drink on a tray. “Oh, God bless you for this, Rafick. Hair of the dog—exactly what the doctor ordered.”

  Two Bloody Marys later, Sir James dropped his napkin on the table and picked up his pipe. “All righty, then! Dr. Ford, I suggest you tell Senny what you’re doing on Saint Lucia. Hear him out, dear girl, then you can decide whether to hate him and send him away, or to trust him and let him help with our little problem.”

  20

  SENEGAL FIRTH’S LITTLE PROBLEM had nothing to do with the photos published in a French magazine. Her problem was that a hidden camera had filmed her during an “injudicious evening” inside the mountain villa she’d rented while vacationing alone on Saint Arc less than a year ago.

  The blackmailer had contacted her a month before the elections and threatened to send a copy of the video to her husband, another to the London Times, and also to post it on Internet pornography sites if she didn’t pay four million pounds into a Bank of Aruba account.

  “It’s the same blackmailer who went after your goddaughter,” Sir James said. “Same modus operandi. I’m assembling a list of victims. Senny certainly was not the first, and your goddaughter will not be the last. That’s why we have to nail the buggers to the wall and cut their heads off.”

  The woman said, “Hooker,” with an expression of distaste. “No need to be gruesome, is there?”

  Montbard said, “There’s every reason to be gruesome. We are dealing with people who are absolutely ruthless. Ford? Tell her what would’ve happened to those four American women last night if you hadn’t come along.”

  I said, “Honestly? I think the women would’ve scared the guys off without my help. They were a tough bunch.”

  “Frighten three men who were armed with knives? Please.”

  Senegal looked sickened, asking, “Men with knives?” as Montbard said, “Bullocks. I saw what happened with my own eyes. If you won’t tell her, I will.”

  He did, minus a few details I hadn’t shared with him last night on Jade Mountain as he’d sipped his third whiskey, and I’d switched from Singapore Slings to the local Piton Beer over ice.

  When he was done, Firth said, “They would’ve murdered the women? You’re serious.”

  I weighed the probabilities before saying, “Were they capable of murder? That’s tough to say. Murder’s the sort of thing that’s easy to talk about, but very few people can actually do.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  I looked at Sir James to see his reaction—it would tell me a lot about him. I realized he was looking at me for the same reason. “Dr. Ford clearly has some knowledge of the subject—” The man cleared his throat. “—the academic sort, of course. The military has done studies. In the second war, fewer than twenty percent of our boys could bring themselves to pull the trigger even when under attack. One percent of our pilots accounted for forty percent of enemy planes shot down. It’s a rare bird who can truly do the deed. But some people seem born to it.”

  I looked at Senegal. “Maybe they were. From what I overheard, it wouldn’t be the first time. I think it would’ve depended on how the women reacted. Sexual pr
edators in a pack behave differently than a predator operating alone.”

  “That’s true,” she said, interested, but also evaluating my words—she was the expert, not me. She’d helped draft laws on the subject.

  “Packs target the weak. If the women had tried to humor them, we might be reading about a multiple homicide in tomorrow’s paper. But if they’d fought back, I think the men would’ve found an excuse to run. There was nothing to gain financially. It was all ego.”

  Firth said, “Three men. Unusual,” as if processing new information. “Could you describe the men if you had to?”

  “I can describe them whether I have to or not. But Sir James has photos. You haven’t seen them?”

  “Yes. But the photos aren’t very clear. They’re . . . not lifelike. Would you mind?”

  I noticed Sir James watching the woman as I described the men. When I was done, I also noticed him inhale and sigh when Senegal said, “There are some vague similarities. But nothing really rings a bell.”

  Was she lying?

  I said, “Then let’s compare notes. The night you were secretly videoed—how would you describe the man?”

  Firth’s chin lifted as she took a butter knife into her hand and began drumming the tip on her place mat. “Unfortunately, I can’t answer that question with any certainty. That’s one of the hurdles Sir James and I have been dealing with.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Looking pained, Montbard interceded, “Senegal was going through a very rough patch in her marriage. You’d been married to Harold for how long?”

  In a flat voice, the woman answered, “Fourteen years.”

  “Fourteen years, right. She was just putting together her campaign team when Senny discovered her husband was . . .” He turned to the woman. “Do you mind if I share the story, dear? I think we can trust Dr. Ford. It’s important that he have all the data, but if you’d rather I not—”

  Firth didn’t look up from her teacup. “Go ahead. Doesn’t bother me in the least now.”

  Clearly, it did.

  Montbard and I exchanged looks before he continued, “Turned out, her husband was having an affair with one of her old college chums. It was a terrible shock, as you can imagine. I was the one who advised her to take a couple of weeks off and fly to the Caribbean.” He looked at the woman. “A bit of punk advice, that. Sorry, love.”

  Firth said, “I make no apologies for the decisions I’ve made in my life. What I deeply regret is putting myself in a position where I have no control—and that’s what happened.

  “I cannot describe the man I was with with any clarity, Dr. Ford. I was hurt and angry and alone. He knocked on the door, asking for directions. I invited him in. It was after sunset, but it wasn’t late. We started chatting. He spoke French, which made the situation feel safer for some reason. I hesitated when he offered to make drinks, and he must have sensed what I was thinking, because he laughed and told me I was being silly. I don’t know why in the world I didn’t order him out of the house then! But I didn’t. That’s the last thing I remember clearly. I was an idiot. My marriage had ended long before I vacationed on Saint Arc. But I still feel like an idiot.”

  I said, “You aren’t. You were targeted. Sir James is right—they’re expert at what they do. They demanded a quarter million dollars from my goddaughter. She doesn’t have that kind of money personally. But she’s successful enough, she can pay it off in installments, and that’s what they’re now demanding. I think they research their targets carefully. What about you? Four million pounds is, what? About eight million U.S.?”

  Firth nodded. “I couldn’t possibly come up with that much money— not in a month, not in a year, not in twenty years.”

  “Then the blackmailer didn’t really expect you to pay. He timed it to sabotage your campaign. Why?”

  Firth gave me a look that seemed to say, Smart. But I wasn’t asking anything she hadn’t already thought about.

  “Either to sabotage my career, or to guarantee a hold over me if I was elected. As I think you are now aware, I’m passionate about certain social issues—the right to privacy; child pornography; punishing people who break those laws.

  “Good laws cross boundaries. Even a freshman MP could affect the economy of a corrupt island such as Saint Arc. I think the blackmailers saw an opportunity to secure influence over my career, and took it. They never expected me to pay the money.”

  Further proof, she said, was that they didn’t carry out their threat to make the video public when she refused to pay or negotiate.

  “The last e-mail I received was—” She turned to Montbard. “—three months ago?”

  He nodded.

  “And it’s been three months of absolute hell. It was impossible to push out of my mind. The constant fear. The sense of impending doom. And I was too embarrassed to go to Scotland Yard or even share the problem with a therapist. I am not a dramatic person, Dr. Ford, but I feel it’s accurate to say I was on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown. Dealing with a divorce, withdrawing from the election—” Her voice began to waver.

  Montbard took over. “Senny hadn’t contacted me for months, and I began to wonder if something was wrong. So I called and called until she rang me back. That was . . . about three weeks ago, right, dear?” The man reached and patted Firth’s hand affectionately. “She didn’t realize that, thanks to my previous line of work, I was qualified to help with her problem. No one would, I suppose. Best thing about it is, I conned this beautiful creature into abandoning London and spending the summer at Bluestone while I track the bastards.”

  Firth had regained her composure. “I feel anything but wonderful. Their last e-mail gave the impression they were holding my video as a trump card in the event I stood for election again. That’s why I feel like such a damn fool. I ruined my career, the chance to do real service, because of one incredibly stupid decision made in a moment of . . .” I watched her face turn pale rose, just as Montbard had described it. “. . . during a moment of emotional instability. I would do anything to make it right again.”

  I sat forward in my chair to stress a point. “Ms. Firth, the camera was set up, ready to go, before the man who seduced you arrived. The drinks he fed you were drugged. Same with my goddaughter, same with the women last night. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  “Drugged? I suspected that. I felt so strange . . . rather giddy and dreamy and . . .”

  “Amorous?” I used Montbard’s word.

  The woman looked away. "Hardly that.”

  “You didn’t feel unusually affectionate? Or at least behave with an unusual feeling of . . . let’s say, willingness.”

  “I told you how I felt—strange, and not at all myself. That’s all I remember. Excuse me, please, gentlemen.” She stood.

  I said, “I’m sorry. I was only trying to discuss the drug they may have used.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll be back,” she said, placing her napkin on the table. “Please wait, won’t you? Just need to freshen up a bit.”

  OVER COFFEE, I explained what I’d learned about the party drug, MDA, and the effects of similar amphetamine-based chemicals.

  The woman and the Englishman listened attentively, but Montbard became interested when I asked, “Have you heard of something locals call Icebreaker?”

  “A potion? I haven’t heard of that one, but the locals use all sorts of potions. They don’t talk about it openly, but obeah dominates the culture. I began a personal study, actually, years before I started getting into this blackmail business.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a powerful historical force. The knowledge is useful to me now because I believe the blackmailer uses obeah to control the organization.

  “I’ve been able to identify the men you dealt with last night—Richard Bonaparte, Dirk Van Susterin, Clovis Desmond. I have photos of the fourth man, too, Deepak Wulfelund, originally from Suriname. He does the camerawork at the beach cottage, and—” Montba
rd glanced at the woman. "—presumably, at the rental villa, too.”

  Deepak Wulfelund. Wolfie.

  “Three of the four are employed by one of the major landholders on Saint Arc, a woman who’s considered an obeah gajé—a sort of fortune-teller, priestess, and witch all rolled into one. Her name’s Isabelle Toussaint. Madame Toussaint has a tremendous amount of power. Money, too. Some people on Saint Arc believe she’s the Maji Blanc—a sort of she-devil in obeah folklore.”

  I said, “Do they call her the Widow?” I hadn’t told him about what I’d overheard.

  “Sometimes, yes. I’m impressed you know. Years ago, she married one of the wealthiest man in the Caribbean, but he died in an accident. Left her a bundle. More often, though, she’s referred to as the ‘White Lady’ because of the double meaning—it’s considered bad luck to speak the Maji Blanc’s name, you see.

  “It’s all an act, of course. Toussaint plays the role, I’m sure, to keep the locals in line. The more I find out about her, the more I’m convinced she’s utterly ruthless. Her late husband, for instance—he was thirty years older than she. A few days after the wedding, he supposedly got drunk and stumbled off a cliff. And Madame Toussaint is . . . well, let’s just say she’s not the marrying type.” He smiled as he lit his pipe, sending a message about the woman’s sexuality.

  “You’re convinced she’s the blackmailer?”

  “Yes. I think it’s possible she’s involved with every profitable criminal activity that takes place on the island. Surprised?”

  I was. From the beginning, I’d operated under the assumption it was a man. It was difficult to shift gears now and imagine a female extortionist—especially one who made it a point to humiliate her victims.

  “I say again, the power this woman has over her followers can hardly be exaggerated. Are you a religious man, Ford?”

  “No.”

  “Nor am I. So I have no pious illusions of superiority when I discuss obeah. In fact, in many ways, I think it’s a more sensible religion than the major religions. They all use fear, one way or another, to keep believers in line. But obeah is proactive. You don’t simply kneel down and pray for your heart’s desire, you go out and get it by making a potion or paying someone like the gajé to provide you with a lucky fetish.