Had he killed Wolfie?
I thought about it as he came closer, headed for the cliff. No . . . Fabron was big, but Wolfie was bigger. There was no way the man could carry Wolfie’s corpse several hundred yards.
A corpse, that was my assumption. It was a thing—no movement, no cries of protest. But, as Fabron passed, the thing became a person again, dead or alive, because I recognized who it was. When he used the flashlight again, I saw a corded, butternut forearm, and the profile of a woman’s face and head flopping puppetlike on Fabron’s back.
Norma.
Maybe there was a hidden microphone in the massage room, but why kill her just for confiding in me, a guest? Or maybe it had to do with her job. She’d told me she was quitting soon. But then I reminded myself that Toussaint and her people didn’t need much of a reason. The night before, they’d killed Norma’s teenage nephew for pilfering orchids . . . or maybe he’d simply come to visit his aunt.
Evil is seldom original. Typically, evil’s color is gray. The common criminal is common. Most are the spawn of yawning stupidity and the intellectually stunted. But Madame Toussaint was not a common criminal. She inflicted pain for profit. She enjoyed humiliating her victims, and it was unsettling to imagine how Norma had died.
Fabron was a kindred sadist. I could hear him saying, If the woman’s got a decent body, why waste a chance at something like that? Toussaint would probably name him employee of the month.
Fabron was moving so slowly, I’d have no trouble intercepting him at the cliff. But where was Wolfie?
I WAS AT THE LOOKOUT waiting when Fabron came huffing and puffing into the clearing and dumped Norma’s body onto the ground. Despite the carpet shroud, her body made a flesh-and-bone thump when it hit.
Still no sign of Wolfie.
Fabron was big and lean, but he was cramping after carrying Norma’s body all that way. I watched him shrug and stretch, and roll his head—a massage therapist dealing with his own blockages—close enough that I could hear his breathing, and whispered profanities. I must have sounded like I was right beside him when I spoke. Raised my voice to ask, “Need a back rub, Fabio? Bad timing, killing Norma tonight.”
“Huh?” The man whirled around, then used the flashlight to scan the area. Nothing to see in this clearing but the stone cross, the bench, the safety railing . . . and a solitary tree angling from the precipice, over the sea. I hadn’t tried to disguise my voice, but the ocean updraft had a hollow resonance. Fabron couldn’t pinpoint the source.
“Enjoy the ceremony? Did the Maji Blanc’s skin really glow? Maybe she’ll pay you a visit. Leave you all scratched and bruised . . . like you left Senegal Firth.”
The Frenchman turned again. “Funny game, trying to scare me. I am laughing!” But he didn’t laugh. I watched him take three careful steps and use the flashlight to check behind the stone cross. Then he yelled, “Who are you?”
“Wolfie told you who I am. The La’Ja’bless, remember? I’m here . . . behind you.”
Fabron didn’t fall for it. He crouched low, searching with the flashlight, fine-tuning with his ears, but was maybe actually scared, so I called, “I sent Dirk to the hospital. Crushed his ribs. Maybe I’ll send you to hell. Why did you kill Norma?”
Fabron yelled, “I didn’t!” then took a deep breath, gathering himself as his head vectored slowly toward the solitary tree. He painted the canopy with his flashlight and began to creep toward the edge of the cliff, eyes fixed as he pulled something else from his pocket—a switchblade. He flipped the knife open, calling, "Where are you?”
I didn’t reply. I was peering through exposed roots on the tree’s seaward side where, the night before, I’d tied the hundred feet of braided anchor line. My feet were on a narrow section of the goat path—a ledge not wide enough for my size 13 running shoes, so I had knotted a rough rappelling harness and roped myself in.
Fabron was a curious man. He’d find out where I was—soon, I hoped. I didn’t want to spend any more time than I had to clinging to roots several hundred feet above the sea. The rope would hold, but I wasn’t sure about the tree. Loose stones and earth had showered down when I lowered myself to the ledge. Felt as if the roots were breaking free—a sickening sensation.
I’d looked down only once. The phosphorescent cresting of waves below resembled the lights of a village seen from a jetliner. If the tree busted free, I would go with it.
“Are you tired of your game? Why don’t you answer?” Fabron was closing in, and he no longer sounded rattled. Didn’t he believe that a one-eyed creature, the La’Ja’bless, roamed the night?
No . . . he didn’t believe, because then he said, “You think you’re invisible? You’re only invisible to yourself. Maybe you should clean your ugly fucking glasses!” He was standing directly over me now.
I had my left hand on what I hoped was a solid root, my right hand on the rope where it was knotted to the tree. I waited . . . waited even though he was close enough . . . waited several slow seconds, expecting him to poke his head over the roots to peer down.
He didn’t. In the silence of whistling wind, the distant percussion of waves below, I became aware of an incongruous sound . . . a faint but rhythmic sawing noise . . .
Shit.
Fabron had discovered the rope and was cutting it with the switchblade.
In one motion, I vaulted up onto the rock rim using the rope and roots for leverage. Got my upper body onto solid ground, while my legs dangled . . . and there was Fabron on his knees, sawing frantically, his left side to the tree, the flashlight nearby. He turned when he heard me and swung the knife, trying to pin my hand to the tree. When I yanked my hand away, he lunged and tried to stab me again . . . then grinned as I began to slide back over the edge.
Because there was nothing else to grab, I grabbed Fabron’s long hair— he wouldn’t risk stabbing himself in the head. I yanked and kept yanking until he dropped the knife to pry my left hand free. When he did, I caught his wrist with my right hand, and augered my thumb between tendon and ulnar nerve until my fingers were anchored.
Fabron began sliding with me over the cliff’s edge.
The man swore . . . then screamed, as my weight pulled him downward. He scratched and pounded at my fist, trying to free himself. But we continued to slide. For an instant, we were face-to-face—me looking up, Fabron looking down. He had the wild black eyes of an animal unaccustomed to darkness.
“Let go—you’re insane. You’re hurting me!”
I said, “Like you hurt the English woman?” I had threaded my left arm through a space where a huge root was anchored to rock, but my right hand was still locked on his wrist. I continued pulling him downward.
“What did that bitch tell you? She asked for it. She’s lying!”
I said, “No. You asked for it. And you’re dying.”
I released the wrist, got a handful of his hair, and gave a final yank. The man shrieked as he tumbled over me. But instead of tumbling clear, he got an arm around my neck, and we both fell . . . fell until the rope jolted taut, humming with the strain of our combined weight.
The impact bounced us away from the cliff, over the water . . . back to the rocks . . . over the water . . . then back again . . . amid a shower of stones and the machine-gun crackle of breaking tree roots. Each time a root ripped free, there was another jolting descent of a few inches as the tree began to fall in slow motion.
Fabron had managed to keep his right arm locked around my neck, but he was slipping. As he slipped, he screamed, “Loop the rope around me. For God’s sake, loop the rope around my waist!”
Then, he went silent. He felt my fingers on his right wrist, prying, squeezing, levering. His chest spasmed. He was crying, I realized, as he moaned, “Don’t . . . I’m begging you. We’re both going to die!”
I told him, “Don’t we all?” and popped his hand free.
He fell, and I watched . . . watched as he shrank into a funneling darkness despite his clawing attempts to fly. The last d
esperate words of grown men, good and bad, are often a child’s cry.
“Mamaaaaaaaan.”
Fabron’s scream lingered, then faded into vacuous silence that was dizzying.
I looked away, then at the tree above. Roots were holding now. No more firecracker popping . . . just the open-sea sound of wind . . . and somewhere, the muted howling of a dog.
HAND OVER HAND, I climbed the rope and pulled myself over the rim. I staggered farther from the ledge than necessary to be safe, then rested on one knee while my head throbbed and my pounding heart began to slow. After a minute or so, I walked to where Fabron had dumped Norma’s body.
The carpet was there, but it had been rolled out flat. Norma was gone.
What the hell . . . ?
Had Fabron dumped her off the cliff without me noticing?
No, impossible.
Or maybe Wolfie had come along and . . .
No, Wolfie would’ve cut the rope to get rid of me before bothering with a dead woman.
I’d hidden my radio and flashlight in a crevice near the tree. With the flashlight, I returned to the carpet. I found traces of blood, and a balled-up wad of duct tape. Several yards away, I found another wad of tape.
I smiled. Norma was alive. Hurt . . . maybe badly hurt, but still strong enough to free herself and get away.
I called her name, but not loud. I walked toward a wall of trees where chain-link fence bordered the monastery grounds. Found another strip of tape, and called, “Norma? Norma,” in a hoarse whisper.
She was gone.
I returned to the Lookout and gathered Fabron’s flashlight, his knife, and searched for anything else he might have left behind. As I searched, I imagined the woman out there, hurt, bleeding. Where would an employee of the Orchid go if the boss lady wanted her dead?
Home, probably. Staff housing was down the mountain, not far from the road. Norma had told me her place was set off by itself. But that would mean climbing the fence. What about the dogs?
Maybe there was someone inside the compound Norma could trust. Could be that she was safe, already being taken care of by a friend. I hoped so. I occasionally meet a person I dislike initially, but end up liking intuitively. She was one of those.
A dog howled . . . then another. It came from the elevated darkness beyond the fence. Not far.
Out of habit, I patted the back of my pants even though I knew I’d left my gun with Senegal. I had the radio, though. Maybe Montbard was still in the area . . . even somewhere on the mountain—no telling with him.
I put the radio to my lips . . . then stopped and sniffed the heavy air. I pointed my nose at the stars and sniffed again, testing until I identified a familiar odor: cigar smoke. A combination of maple syrup and tobacco—a cigarillo.
Wolfie.
I CROUCHED, pocketed the radio, flicked open Fabron’s switchblade, then looked for an ambush spot. The rope again? No . . . no way in hell was I going back to that cliff. My muscles were twitching—part nerves, part exhaustion. Wolfie wasn’t an athlete, didn’t have the look of a brawler, but I was running low on fuel. I had to come up with something better. My eyes came to rest on the carpet. Wolfie would expect to find a body there. I gave it some thought—decided he would find a body.
I gathered the discarded duct tape and jammed a ball of it in my pocket—the stuff was still usable—then laid on the carpet. Instead of rolling myself into the center, I pulled a flap of it over me.
A few minutes later, I felt a small glycogen charge as Wolfie came tromping into the clearing. Hunters get the same feeling when they hear the snap of a twig telling them the quarry is approaching. He was swearing and complaining about lazy French playboys, pissed off at Fabron for not dumping Norma’s body, his Caribbean accent so thick he was tough to understand. Then I waited through several seconds of silence before he said, “Dumb bitch!” and I pictured him looking at the carpet, thinking he’d have to carry Norma’s corpse the final few yards. Lazy.
I felt the weight of his foot on the carpet. Expected him to give it a kick, and he did.
“Bitch. Answer me. You dead under there? You not, you will be.” He was scared. I don’t know why I was surprised. Death is communicable, one of the oldest superstitions. It would’ve been funny—if it wasn’t actually happening. But it was.
“Hey . . . you hear me?” He kicked the carpet again. Another long silence, then he began talking to himself. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of. If she’s dead, she already with the Gran’ Bois. She got no reason to do me harm. I got my beads and bones. I’m protected. Nothing evil’s gonna mess with me.”
I heard a rattling noise, like dice—maybe Wolfie was clutching a necklace—but then he began second-guessing himself, whispering, “But where’s Fabron if there ain’t no danger? The Maji Blanc . . . could be. A damn anansi noir could be crawling on the woman’s body right now, eating the woman’s heart. Shit.”
In a louder voice, I heard him say, “Gonna kill that French batty boy.” Then he yelled, “Fab-b-b-ron. Fab-RON! Better answer me, you punk-ass! You nothing but a whoring milk bottle with a dick—get back here and do your damn job!”
I had the knife and blinding Triad flashlight ready. Wolfie had to pull the carpet back sooner or later.
It was sooner. Because I’d been under the carpet, the night sky seemed brighter when Wolfie yanked the carpet away. When I moved, the man exhaled a muted scream and stumbled backward, as if Norma’s spirit had grabbed him. He jumped again when I rolled to my feet, blinded him with the flashlight, and pointed the knife.
“Seen any good movies lately, Wolfie?”
“Who . . . who the hell are you?” He used his hands to shield his eyes from the light.
“A film critic. What’s it matter?”
I lowered the light enough for him to see the knife. He put his hands up automatically, but still couldn’t see me. He’d been scared, now he was close to panic. He began moving sideways, trying to get an angle so he could run toward the safety of the monastery. I moved with him, keeping my back to the place.
“You ain’t her. There was a woman here, she’s supposed to be—”
“Dead? Maybe I am dead.”
I pointed the light at the ground, and he squinted at me. “You can’t be dead. You’re bleedin’.”
I touched the scratches on my face and looked at my fingers. “It’s not my blood.”
Wolfie stopped trying to slip around me and began backing away. “You’re lying.”
“Fabron said the same thing.”
“Fabron? Did you . . . ?”
I swept the flashlight toward the Lookout. Because Wolfie expected me to say something, I said nothing. Instead, I switched the light off. Let the man deal with darkness now.
“You killed him?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell you mean—”
I said, “Rocks killed him when he hit,” as I pointed the light at Wolfie and touched the button. His face contorted as if he’d been shocked.
“Man, why you doing this to me! I don’t even know you!”
“I know you.”
“How? Okay, man, you’re pissed off about something. Put that knife away, and we talk about it. Discuss what we do next.”
I said, “There is no next. Not for you.”
“But, man, we’ve never even met!”
I didn’t reply. No way he could recognize me from our morning at the Bank of Aruba.
I started toward him, not sure what I would do. Eighteen times, I’d been precisely where I was now, close enough to feel a man’s last breath on my cheek. But it wasn’t like Fabron, who’d done his best to kill me. And I wasn’t carrying out orders. This time, the decision was mine.
Wolfie swung his head away. Behind him, the flashlight created a bright corridor of escape. Nothing back there but black forest, black sky, and the distant percussion of barking dogs.
He yelled, “I didn’t do nothing, I swear!” Then he ran. I folded the knife and ran after him.
<
br /> Wolfie had speed for a man his size. Faster than me. For the first minute, I thought I was going to lose him. But he lacked endurance. There was also something else that slowed him—the chain-link fence where it curved in close to the Lookout.
That’s where I caught him. By the fence. He’d slowed to a jog, winded, lungs whistling. He reminded me of a wounded rhino as he crashed through brush inside the fence perimeter. He was turning to face me when I lowered my shoulder and cracked him from behind.
Cornered animals fight, and Wolfie did. I leveraged him onto his belly, then got my legs threaded through his, so he couldn’t stand. When he tried to elbow me off, I caught his left wrist. I had the tape out and ready, and I used a half nelson to control his arm. I got a couple of wraps with the tape. Then I caught his right wrist.
I was taping his hands together when I heard a rushing, ascending noise that sounded like a mountain river. I swung the flashlight toward the fence just as two Brazilian mastiffs lunged for the top of the chain-link, trying to get at us, their orange eyes burning. Only then did they growl—more of a pack roar, really. It surprised me and scared me so badly that I vaulted off Wolfie. I rolled, and came up holding the switchblade, expecting the dogs to be over the fence.
No . . . the fence was just high enough for them to get their heads and paws over, but they couldn’t lift their own weight.
I used the light. There were four dogs, not two. Rabid, slavering—a horror movie shown by a projector’s bright beam on a screen that was black, not silver.
I moved the light to Wolfie. He was struggling to get his hands free. I’d used enough tape, so all he could do was look at me and yell, “I know those dogs, man! If I tell them to jump the damn fence, they’ll do it! You cut me loose! Hear?”
I was afraid to take my eyes off the mastiffs. “They’re your animals?” I had to talk louder to be heard.
“They’ll do any damn thing I tell them!”
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