The beach house was lit up, windows bright, upstairs and down. The patio at the rear of the house shimmered with an aqueous, swimming-pool glow. There was music—Bob Marley, again—pounding through the palm canopy, stirring leaves like a sea breeze. It muted the percussion of waves on the beach, and the last distant crackle of Sir James’s fireworks diversion.
Crouched low, I jogged across an expanse of sand to the hedge. The hedge shielded the pool at eye level, but didn’t interfere with the view from the camera blind above the house. I turned and looked. No lights up there in the rain-forest darkness, no sign of movement. Wolfie had produced his last film.
I moved along the hedge, gun pointed at the ground, index finger resting parallel to the trigger guard. On the back wall of the house, I could see shadows. Shadows of people standing near the pool. Because pool lights reflected upward, their shadows were huge. At least one woman. At least one man.
I stopped and tried to decipher a garbled exchange—the man saying something . . . the woman answering, but the music disassembled their voices and left me listening to the wind.
I walked faster, then heard another exchange. This time I recognized the woman’s voice. “. . . if it’s me you want, get that damn knife away from her neck. Stop it!”
Beryl’s voice.
I ran. Sprinted toward the walkway where the hedge ended, and peeked around the corner, seeing the lime blue water of the pool . . . seeing Senegal Firth sitting in a chair next to the bar . . . seeing Clovis, his back to me, standing, holding a knife to the side of Senegal’s neck as the woman sat very straight, weeping.
Beryl faced them—stood with the wooden stiffness of an actress frozen by stage fright, arms at her sides. She wore pleated white beach pants and sandals. Nothing else. In a pile at her feet were a bra, a blouse, and a turquoise scarf. Her tanned skin was darkened by the paleness of her breasts.
I pointed the pistol at Clovis’s head, stepped toward the pool . . . then stepped back. The knife—he would use the knife when he saw me. He would use it to cut Senegal, or he would use Senegal as a shield to escape.
I glanced over my shoulder, wondering where Shay was, where Ritchie was, as I heard Clovis say, “Darlin’, what don’t you understand about this game? It’s strip poker, but without cards.” There was a nauseating slickness to his laughter. “I win every hand . . . or I cut this old woman’s face a little. Which would be too bad, because—” Clovis got a handful of Senegal’s hair. “—she ain’t too bad-looking.”
He yanked the English woman’s head back, and Beryl yelled, “Leave her alone!”
Clovis grinned. Used the knife like a conductor’s baton: tap-tap-tap. Beryl took a big breath. She began unbuttoning her pants.
“That’s better, darlin’. You make me happy when you cooperate.”
I knelt, put left elbow on knee to steady my hands, and let the man’s head blur behind the precise notch-and-blade of my gun sights. I needed an opening, a few feet of separation.
Clovis put his lips close to Senegal’s ear as he released her hair. “What’s gone wrong with your pretty friend? First night we met, this girl, Beryl, she was eager to cooperate. Oh man, she was so eager! She ripped her clothes off. Hell, she ’bout ripped my clothes off, too. Couldn’t wait to get her rich-girl hands on my sweet bamboo!”
He looked at Beryl. “You don’t remember how sweet it was? How you moaned, first time I gave you what I got? Never felt nothin’ like it, that’s what you said. Ain’t that true, pretty darlin’?”
The way he emphasized the word “true,” I knew he expected Beryl’s signature reply. Hard to imagine the Ice Queen beauty with this Peter Lorre weasel. But there it was.
He said it again. “True?” When she didn’t answer, his tone turned nasty. “But now, instead of bein’ happy to see us local boys, treating me and Ritchie right, the bitch pulls out a silly little popgun. Like she don’t appreciate what I give to her. Bitch—” He pointed the knife at Beryl. “—you try to trick me, you’re gonna end up turning tricks for me.”
For the first time, I noticed the little Colt .380 on the deck near Clovis’s feet. The gun I’d loaned Senegal.
I looked over my shoulder again, seeing palm trees, seeing pumpkin-sized coconuts on sand, seeing a watery darkness in the distance, but no Ritchie.
I used the SIG’s decocking lever, then hustled to the nearest palm, picked out a coconut, and put it under my arm like a football before jogging to the opposite side of the patio. The hedge was thicker there, but I found an opening and peeked through.
Clovis was facing me now. He’d grabbed Senegal’s hair again, but his eyes were locked on Beryl as she stepped out of her pants, showing long, tanned legs and a golden pubic shadow beneath white panties.
The man grinned his Peter Lorre grin. “That’s nice, darlin’. I think I’m gonna have me some of that. Why don’t you relax, have some fun with your bamboo man? Or maybe you’re the type likes to be forced.”
He stepped away from Senegal. I let him take another step before I lobbed the coconut toward the far end of the pool. Lobbed it like a hand grenade. It was big, oil laden, and sounded like a bowling ball when it hit the water.
Clovis whirled, then crouched. He looked at the pistol lying on the deck, probably thinking he might need it, as I crashed through the hedge and tackled him chest-high. I got a brief look at his eyes—brown, dazed, like protuberant marbles—as we tumbled into the water.
I kept my arms locked around the man as I took him under, pinning his arms to his sides. Maybe he’d held on to the knife, maybe he’d dropped it. It didn’t matter.
I exhaled a slow stream of bubbles as we sank to the bottom—couldn’t have been more than five feet deep. Kept my hands locked as Clovis struggled . . . waited as his efforts became panicked . . . waited, eyes open, watching the oversized bubbles of the man’s ascending scream.
I stayed on the bottom and waited, feeling his chest heave as he inhaled water, then heave again as reflexes demanded oxygen. Gave it another five seconds before I pushed Clovis to the surface . . . then shoved him away when he began to vomit, unconscious now.
It was one of those kidney-shaped, decorator pools. I got a hand under his chin, walked him to the steps, then pulled him onto the deck. “Where’s Shay?”
Beryl was the first to recover from the shock. “Shay . . . she left with Ritchie. Ritchie took her to the beach. She pretended she wanted sex, so he wouldn’t force her. They left us with this . . . animal. I couldn’t help her because of him.”
Beryl had her hands over her breasts, but it was an indifferent modesty. Her denim-blue eyes glazed as she focused on Clovis. I watched Beryl lower her hands. I saw her hands become fists as she started toward the man. He was lying belly-down in his own mess, still alive. I was on one knee, using my belt to bind his arms behind him.
I stood. “Beryl . . . Beryl. Take it easy. Don’t do something you’ll regret later.”
It stopped her. But I couldn’t tell if she meant it when she answered, “You’re right. Why lower myself? He’s the sicko. Not me.” Icy.
“Get some rope. Or some tape—the belt won’t hold. Can I trust you to keep an eye on him? I’ve got to find Shay.”
Beryl said, “Oh yes. You can trust me,” in a flat, robotic voice as Senegal wrapped an arm over her shoulder, pulled her close, and said, “Hooker taught me all sorts of knots. I’ll do it.”
Senegal, with her bruised cheek, hair a mess, eyes puffy from crying, sounded okay, solid. “Magnificent,” Montbard had said about her. I could see it.
I answered her by shaking my head as I picked up the Colt, checked the chamber, then the clip. "No. I need your help. And I need you to be strong.” I signaled her closer, as Beryl went to retrieve her clothes. “Hooker’s hurt. A dog bit him. It’s his hand and wrist, so I think he’ll be okay. But it’s not nice to look at. He’s in a van behind the house. I want you to collect all the first-aid stuff you can find. And hang on to this in case Ritchie comes back.” I touche
d the safety, then handed her the gun.
Senegal looked stricken.
“How bad is it?”
“Bad enough he needs to get to a hospital fast. But it has to be Saint Lucia, not here. That’s important. Understand?”
The woman surprised me, saying, “Then we’ll take him to the plane. Right away.”
I said, “What plane?”
“Shay came in a private plane with a man named Eddie. He’s at the airport now, waiting. We were supposed to be there by ten-thirty. The girls were going to overnight with me on Saint Lucia.”
I was thinking, Eddie DeAntoni. At the marina, he’d asked if I was coming to Saint Lucia alone, or with women.
“What time is it now?”
“Quarter-past-ten.”
“How many does the plane seat?”
“Six, I think he said. It’s very fast and fancy.”
Just like Eddie.
I told Senegal, “Then get going. Tell Beryl. Leave your clothes, leave this guy, just go. In the van, there’s a woman named Norma—you’ll like her. She’s flying with you. Shay will come with me by boat.”
I used the flashlight to signal the van, then ran toward the beach.
I WAS ALMOST to the lagoon, running hard, when I saw the silhouette of someone jogging toward me. There was no cover, so I dropped to one knee, gun in hand, and watched.
It was Shay. Because I thought Ritchie might be chasing her, I waited until she’d passed before calling her name. When she hesitated, I added, “It’s me. It’s okay. Where’s Ritchie?”
“Doc?” I’d startled her. She walked slowly toward me. “Did you see Beryl and the English woman? Are they okay? Clovis is with them . . . that’s why I was running, because I was worried—”
I said, “They’re fine. No danger, I promise.” I asked again, “What happened to Ritchie?”
I felt a chill when she replied, “Are you alone? We need to talk.”
“Yes. It’s just me.” I slipped the pistol into the back of my pants.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anyone in my life.” The girl ran the last few steps, and let me swing her off the ground as we hugged. She laughed, smiled . . . her smile faded.
“Beryl told you about Corey?”
“Yes. Was it a blood clot?”
“That’s what the doctors finally decided. But what really killed her was this island. What happened here. Feels real strange to be back. Feels like it was five years ago, not just a few weeks.”
I noticed that remnants of her Southern accent had returned. Ds softened or changed to Ts; the nasal emphasis on strange.
“Ritchie showed up tonight. They tell you?”
I said patiently, “Yes. That’s why I keep asking where he is.”
“I’m trying to tell you, okay? Beryl had this plan, a way to get revenge. At first, it seemed . . . I don’t know, exciting. When we talked about it, it was like we were actresses, seeing it on a movie screen. But that’s not how it was. It got real. Then it got too real. We decided, screw it, we’re leaving tonight. But then they showed up. Ritchie and the other guy. While we were packing.” Shay cleared her throat. “Doc? You mind if we walk along the beach? It’s nice by the water.”
I said, “Okay,” watching her pull a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, then light one. She hadn’t smoked since she was a teen, living in Dexter Money’s home.
Shay tossed the match away and said, “That’s how it started. Beryl wanted to even the score, after all the hurt they caused us. Plus, for her, I think it was a way to get back at the man who kidnapped her when she was a girl. I’m guessing. She never really said. Does that make sense?”
I nodded, thinking about Beryl back there with Clovis, his hands belted behind him. What would Senegal do if Beryl asked for the gun?
Shay said, “When Corey died, that made up my mind. Revenge, hell yes. I asked Eddie, the Italian guy at Dinkin’s Bay, if he’d fly me down. He’s always had a thing for me. When we told him we were pulling out tonight, staying on Saint Lucia, he went to get the plane ready. That’s where he is now, waiting for us.”
I looked at my wrist—no watch—and hoped that Eddie would get Sir James to the hospital in time to save his hand. Maybe save his life.
I told her, “Forget about revenge. There’s no need for it now. I have your video. The original. I stole it—along with the money you paid out. You can get on with your life now, so stop worrying—”
“You got our money back? Doc, that’s great! How’d you manage . . . ? No, tell me later when we have more time. My God, I can certainly use it. All hundred and nine thousand?”
I said, “Plus interest. And something extra for Corey’s family.”
Odd. The video no longer seemed important to her.
The girl clapped her hands together. “You are the most amazing man I’ve ever met! I knew my luck had to change. Beryl probably couldn’t wait to tell you what happened between Michael and me. We ended it for good, the day after Corey died. Getting our money back—that’s the best news I’ve heard for a while.”
“Beryl didn’t tell me. The wedding’s off?”
“Yes, thank God.”
“Why?”
“I found out the damn truth, that’s why. Monday afternoon, Michael calls me and says Ida—you remember his witch of a mother?—he tells me Ida has somehow gotten ahold of photos of me with that slimeball, Ritchie. I tell him bullshit, his mother’s making it up. I tell him it’s impossible—and it should’ve been impossible. I still had four days to pay the people here. And you had the only other copy of the video.”
But it was possible, Shay told me. To prove it, Michael brought the photos to her apartment. Graphic shots lifted from the video.
I said, “So he ended it.”
“No!” she said, offended I’d made the assumption. “He thought the pictures were sexy—that’s how freaky he is. I ended it! I ended it because I thought it through logically, just like you’d do. I even went to your lab and sat on the dock. Plus, I got your e-mail with those questions. Did Michael’s family have other business connections in the Caribbean? Who recommended Saint Arc? What’s Ida’s maiden name?
“So I started asking Michael questions even before he pulled out the pictures. He got very nervous, because he knew. That witch set me up, and the whole time, he knew. Fucking Ritchie sent her those prints— Ritchie or some other contact she has down here. Ruining my life wasn’t enough for his mother. She wanted to bleed my bank account dry, too.
“I’m going to have children one day, Doc. You think I want Michael’s blood in my babies? His sick genes? No way.”
Shay didn’t know about Michael’s aunt, Isabelle Toussaint. That was okay. Shay had already made her decision. She’d figured it out on her own. I smiled. I admired the girl’s unemotional approach. I’d assembled her caricature to mirror my own conceits.
Shay reached, pressed her breasts against my arm . . . then was amused when I jumped at what sounded like a distant gunshot.
“It’s only fireworks,” she told me. “Must be a holiday or something.” She released my arm, and walked to the water’s edge where the sand looked gray at the lagoon’s black rim and where, two days before, I’d seen jellyfish adrift, and wrestled lobsters from a cave.
I watched her. I could see the glow of her cigarette. It strobed a nervous rhythm, out of place on this dark night with stars, and the steady percussion of waves beaching themselves outside the lagoon. After taking a last drag, she tossed the butt away without looking to see where it fell.
I joined her, and Shay turned to face me. Maybe it was the way she was dressed—jeans, shirt knotted at the belly button—or maybe it was the deceptive properties of tropical starlight, but Shay looked less like a business exec and more like the plain-faced teen I’d met years before. She stood looking up at me, her cheek still swollen from the accident, nose a little too thick, lips too thin, and a body that, at another time and place, might have radiated a buxom, Southern, ph
eromone sensuality. But not tonight.
I said, “You were going to tell me about Ritchie.”
Shay looked at the sand, nodded. “He killed Corey. That’s the way I’m thinking of it. And he did things to me that night in the swimming pool I didn’t tell you. Things he kept doing even when I told him to stop.”
I said, “You have every right to be mad. But we’re talking about tonight. How mad did you get?”
“I was telling you about this plan Beryl had—”
“Shay!” I took her hand and squeezed. “Stop evading. What happened? I know Ritchie tried to force you, I know you pretended to be interested, I know you two came here, to the beach. So, for the last time, where’s—”
“I brought a gun,” Shay interrupted, pulling away. She turned her back to me and looked at the sky where there were stars . . . and also a plane climbing skyward, green and white lights blinking.
“Hey,” she said. “Hey! That’s Eddie’s plane. I’m supposed to fly back to Saint Lucia with—”
“I’m taking you by boat,” I said. “You were telling me about the gun.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s one of the good things about flying with Eddie. You can carry anything you want on a private plane. The gun, it made me feel safe when I was out here with Ritchie. He probably wondered where I got all the courage when I started screaming at him about Corey. I told him he was nothing but low-life trash, and how much I hate bullies. Then . . .”
I waited for a few seconds before I pressed, “And then . . . ?” wondering if she was editing her story. She often did.
“And then I took out the gun and pointed it at Ritchie’s smug damn face. He tried to bullshit his way out of it. But when I pulled the hammer back, I wish you could’ve seen his expression. He was like, Jesus Christ, this woman’s got the balls to really do it. I told him, ‘Ritchie, you little prick, you’ve got five seconds to run.’ Then I started counting. And . . . that’s all that happened.”
I said, “What do you mean?” It was like we were in her convertible again, returning from the airport, the stories slippery in her mouth.
“I mean he ran—the coward. And so I . . . fired a couple of shots into the sand. To scare the hell out of him. Because of the fireworks, no one would’ve noticed.” She made a sound that resembled laughter. “Ritchie won’t be back, I promise you that.”
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