by Jac Simensen
“Ah, my overeducated nephew, it is of no concern to me if you believe all that I have told you, or not. Lilith and Hattie, her pale daughter, were condemned by the gods to eternal life and they both walk the earth today, just as you do. In addition to Ashanti lore, if you study ancient history, as I have, you will discover in the writings of Mesopotamia, Babylon, Assyria, and Egypt, many tales of how Lilith, Lilit, or Lilitu captured the souls of infant children and destroyed them. The Christian Bible, in the book of Isaiah, talks of a female demon and calls Lilith ‘the screech owl’ or ‘night hag.’ The ancient manuscripts tell of an aged, worn-out Lilith taking over the bodies of young women.”
Morowa rose from her chair and then squatted in front of Ringwald, her face only inches from his. “Still, nothing you say explains why Juba, my mother-in-law, was such a bitter, controlling woman, why she was so disappointed that Hubert and I had no female child, or why she was cold and unfriendly to our boys. What you have told us is that Juba would have been able to pass on her powers to a daughter, but she had no daughter—and only one son, my husband.”
Ringwald scowled. “I know precisely when my sister Juba became such an embittered woman—she first began to change after her husband was killed. Then, when Carrie, Hubert’s first wife, took Hubert’s girls back to England, Juba’s personality completely shifted. Even as a small child, Juba was always intense and serious, but she wasn’t nasty. I believe that she was deeply frustrated that she was unable to pass her ancient powers on to a daughter. But, you see, when she has no daughter, each female descendant of Nanina, before her death, can pass her powers to the nearest female blood relative. Since the two of you had no girl child, for Juba, that blood relative would be...”
“Naki,” Morowa whispered.
“Yes, child,” Ringwald confirmed. “That would be Naki, her first granddaughter.”
~*~
Morowa waved goodbye to Ringwald while she pushed the switch to raise the Range Rover’s side window, and then abruptly turned toward Hubert. “You don’t believe a word of that nonsense, do you?”
Hubert grinned and exhaled. “Hold on a minute while I turn this tank around.” He circled the courtyard, waved to Ringwald, tooted the horn, and then drove back toward the trail.
True to her nature, Morowa didn’t pause for breath. “Of course, when I was a child, I heard the Ashanti creation stories—the stories of Eleda and Elemi—but Lilith, Alos, Nanina, and your mother? Do you think that Ringwald just made that stuff up?”
Hubert changed gears in the Range Rover. “I don’t think he made it all up. From my childhood, I can remember stories about Lilith—stories my Ashanti relatives told while sitting around their fires at night. This Lilith they spoke of was a monster—a monster with a woman’s body and claws on her feet and hands. A monster who preyed on young children. Lilith was the terrifying star of many of my childhood nightmares.”
“But Nanina, and your mother, and her passing her powers to Naki—you’ve heard that stuff before?”
“Never, but it might explain a lot of things—things about my mother and her obsession with having a female grandchild.”
“You really think Juba might have had some sort of protective powers—powers she inherited from Eve’s daughter, Nanina?”
“Of course not, but if Juba believed that she had powers—powers she was required to pass on to a female relative—that might explain her obsession, her cold, unfeeling treatment of her grandsons, and how she turned on you when you told her that you couldn’t bear any more children.”
“So maybe that’s why she tattooed Naki before Carrie took the girls away—backup in case you and I produced no granddaughters?”
Hubert nodded. “And maybe that explains why my mother left her jewelry to Naki and why she made me swear that after her death, I would have Ringwald identify the power stone and personally deliver the jewelry to Naki. A long time ago, at university, I had to take a course in psychology, and I still remember something we were taught. If a person becomes obsessed with an unsubstantiated belief, to that person, the belief becomes just as real as would any concrete, observable fact. Perhaps that’s what she—” Hubert paused and focused on the rearview mirror. “What’s this?” he asked. “Ringwald’s jeep is coming up behind us. Did we leave something? You got the jewels, right?”
Morowa leaned forward and opened her purse. “They’re right here,” she replied.
Hubert downshifted and began to slow.
Morowa turned and looked back at the battered jeep that was quickly closing on the Range Rover. “That’s not Ringwald!” Morowa shouted. “There’s another man driving, and someone in a head scarf sitting next to him. I think they’re going to crash into us.”
Before the jeep could ram into the Range Rover, Hubert stepped down hard on the accelerator, the churning tires threw up a cloud of dirt and gravel, and the Range Rover shot forward.
“This doesn’t look good,” Hubert said—and, as if to support his understatement, three gunshots rang out and the Range Rover’s rear hatch window exploded.
“Holy shit!” Morowa shouted. “They’re trying to kill us!” She reached into the glove box and pulled out the revolver.
“Don’t shoot! That old Colt is only accurate at short range; you’d just be wasting ammunition. Hold off until they get real close.”
“Okay,” she replied. “What are we gonna do?”
“Think you can crawl between the seats and get to the shotgun?”
“Sure,” was all she said as she began to slide her torso through the gap between the front seats.
“Leave the handgun on the front seat, and try not to get cut on the broken glass back there.”
Kneeling on the floor, her torso resting on the rear seats, Morowa pulled down one side of the split rear seatback and then crawled into the hatch. “Got the shotgun,” she called, as two more shots rang out.
“Stay there and keep down on the floor. I’ve got an idea. A couple of hundred yards ahead, an old trail cuts in from the right, and then quickly switches back to the left. I can take the turn-off at enough speed so that they’ll have to stop and back up to follow. That’ll give us time to negotiate the switchback, stop, and wait there for the jeep to catch up. Since the switchback is a very sharp turn, they’ll have to slow way down, and then, when they’re close, you can go for them with the shotgun.”
“Okay—sounds like a plan. I’ll stay on the floor, and you shout when they’re in range.”
Hubert was impressed with her calmness, but then he’d always known Morowa was an unusually strong woman; she was descended from an ancient line of female warriors.
“Right, the turn-off is coming now. Brace yourself.”
Hubert cut the wheel hard to the right and shot off the main trail, onto the overgrown secondary trail. He downshifted, carefully maneuvered the big SUV around the sharp turn, and then jerked to a stop. “They missed the turn-off,” he called. “Should be along in about a minute. Wait until you can make out their faces and then go for the passenger first—he’s the shooter. Then just empty the whole chamber into the cab. I’m gonna be on the ground behind the driver’s side door with the .38, just in case one of them manages to get out alive. Okay?”
“Got it,” Morowa called, as she extended the shotgun through the jagged remains of the hatch window.
Exactly as Hubert predicted, the jeep slowly turned the sharp corner and was less than fifty feet away from the stopped Range Rover. Morowa started to squeeze the trigger, but then froze; she recognized the passenger. It was Alexandria. The glint of the sun’s reflection off the rifle in Alexandria’s hand snapped Morowa out of her momentary paralysis. She fired the shotgun at Alexandria, then pumped it and fired again. She turned her attention to the driver and fired off three quick bursts, then fired the final round back toward where Alexandria had been sitting. Hubert ran to the side of the jeep and pointed the .38 into the front seat. He pulled back and tucked the handgun under his belt. The .38 wasn’t needed—t
he blasts of the shotgun had reduced the two occupants to bloody carcasses.
Morowa climbed out of the Range Rover and cautiously looked through the shot-out windshield into the jeep. “Who’s the man?” she asked.
“Hard to tell now, but I think he was Alexandria’s youngest son. Looks like Alexandria could understand English a lot better than Uncle Ringwald thought. We’ll need to go back and check up on the old guy.”
Morowa nodded. “Let’s hope his blood isn’t on these diamonds, along with theirs.”
16
Gordon was unloading bags of groceries from the new SUV when Deputy McGill appeared in the driveway. The deputy was obviously off duty—he was dressed in faded jeans and a green Miami Dolphins T-shirt.
“Hey! What’re you doin’ around here, Deputy?” a puzzled Gordon asked.
“Hey, Mr. Hale. I moonlight for my brother-in-law. He’s got a property-maintenance-and-surveillance business here on the island and just last week he got a contract on the house next door. We put up the storm shutters this morning, so I thought I’d take a minute to drop over and see how Miss Rawlings was doin’. Hope I’m not interrupting anything. When I saw that SUV out there, I thought you might be havin’ company.”
“Grab that last bag and come on in. Nila’s in the kitchen with the girls,” Gordon replied.
Nila was spoon-feeding cereal to a hungry Julie. Janna was cranky and refusing to eat. “You’re not interrupting a thing,” she said, having heard them talking. “And we don’t have guests. That’s my new car—Gordy bought it for me. I love it. It shifts all by itself and has all sorts of gadgets—even air-conditioned seats.”
“It’s a beauty, Miss Rawlings. My girlfriend loves Lincolns.”
Gordon filled the deputy’s coffee cup. “Deputy, I think we’ve been through enough together that we can use first names now, especially since you’re off duty.”
The deputy nodded. “I’m Joshua. My girlfriend, Tyrece, calls me Josh, but everyone else on the island calls me Mick.”
“Mick, Mick, Mick,” Julie called out as she banged her small fist on the metal high-chair tray.
“I guess you’re Mick,” Nila said with a grin. “Lately, Julie’s discovered she’s a parrot, not a little girl.”
“So, Mick, you said you have new information about Maggie?” Gordon asked.
“Not exactly. It’s about her sister, Amy. You haven’t heard from her, Nila?”
Nila shook her head. “Not a word.”
“She was your good friend?”
“Was?” Nila asked, her voice rising. “She’s dead?”
Mick nodded. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you—Amy Cartwright died of a heart attack.”
Nila covered her eyes with one hand and started to sob. “Gordy, could you take over here, please?” She dropped the spoon on the table and walked to the sink. When she turned back toward the table there were tears rolling down her cheeks. She raised a dishtowel to her face.
Gordon stood and embraced her. The twins silently stared at Nila and Gordon with troubled expressions on their small faces.
After a few seconds, Nila lowered the towel to her chin. “When did it happen?”
“About a week ago, at her parents’ home in Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia. I haven’t seen the official report just yet. We shoulda received it from Highway Patrol by now—I’ll check it out when I go on duty tonight. The sergeant I spoke with said that there’s no question it was heart failure. She’d had a past history of heart problems and had heart surgery as a child.”
“That’s so sad,” Nila sobbed. “She told me about the heart surgery—she was born with a hole in her heart and had surgery as an infant. Amy was such a lovely woman in every way—talented and with so much promise. We weren’t exactly close friends. I’d only known her for a little over a year, but I’m sure we would have become much closer. We were like each other in so many ways.”
Janna began making the little unhappy noises that were always the prelude to a full-fledged howl. Nila wiped the tears from her own face and resumed her seat in front of the two high chairs. The twins stared into her face.
“It’s okay,” she said to them with a smile as she retrieved the feeding spoon.
“Mama nadda, mama nadda!” Janna shouted.
“Mama nadda,” Julie took up the chant as she bounced in her chair.
Gordon moved to Nila’s side and stroked the back of her neck. “Here, I’ll take over.”
Nila turned toward him. “I’m fine. I can do this—it was just the shock. I’ve never had a friend die before.” She patted his hand. “Thanks, but I can do this.”
Mick turned around in his chair. “There’s just one more thing I think I should tell you.”
“About Amy?” Gordon asked.
“Actually, it’s about Margaret Cartwright. When she robbed the liquor store and shot the clerk, she left a car behind—a nearly new Corvette convertible that was registered to her sister in Pennsylvania. The Corvette was out of gas. Maybe that’s why she took the clerk’s old Chevy. So, it’s possible that Margaret Cartwright was at her parents’ home in Pennsylvania at about the same time her sister Amy had the heart attack. Maybe she saw that her sister was dead and stole the car. Kinda strange coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Do the Pennsylvania police think there’s a connection with Maggie to her sister’s death?” Gordon asked.
“I don’t think so. As I said, they’re convinced that Amy Cartwright died of heart failure. After I read the report tonight, I’ll give you a call if there’s anything else.”
The deputy stood up. “I’d better get back next door and help Tony put the ladders on the truck. My shift starts at six, so I can still get a few hours’ sleep before I go on the road. That’s if Tyrece doesn’t have a honey-do list for me. I’ll give you a call tomorrow if anything interesting turns up in the report.”
“They’re gone now, the old lady and her nurse—the tall, pale woman?” Gordon asked.
“I don’t know about the old lady. She must’ve left earlier. Just after we got here this morning, a limo picked up the pale nurse, and a younger woman. She was pretty skinny—short brown hair, with dark glasses, a long dress, and a big floppy hat. They didn’t answer when I hollered hello. The old lady wasn’t with them.”
Gordon frowned. “That’s curious. Hattie, Mrs. Silk’s nurse, left a text on my cell phone sometime last night saying they were leaving early this morning. They had some unexpected business back in Louisiana and didn’t know when they’d be back. I’m glad they’re out of here. Mrs. Silk gives me the creeps—always has.”
“Something else kinda strange,” Mick said. “There’s this big fifty-five-gallon steel drum around the side of the house in the walled garden. It was all charred and burned-out like, and all the grass within about ten feet of the barrel was black, as well. Looks like somebody had a very hot fire goin’ for a couple of days in a row. The inside of the barrel was all swept out, and no trace of whatever they was burning was left.”
Gordon stood and walked toward the door. “Like I said, I wish my father had never sold Myra Silk the house.”
17
Most everyone in Tortola knew about the Purple Palace—three connected, single-story, concrete-block buildings nestled between the coast road and the sea, not far from the west end of the island. Maybe at an earlier time the palace had actually been painted purple, but it was now sky blue. The color had changed but not the name. Dr. Ponder, his wife, and two children lived in the largest of the buildings. Another housed a clinic with his examining and operating rooms, and the last building consisted of four luxurious, private hospital rooms. To the rear of the buildings were a large kidney-shaped swimming pool, a shady cabana, a well-stocked open-air bar, and numerous lounge chairs and large umbrellas. Ponder employed a staff of seven: a reconstructive surgeon, an anesthesiologist, two operating room nurses, a practical nurse, a chambermaid/cook who also served as a poolside bartender, and a waitress. The medical pro
fessionals had all been recruited from the UK. Although Ponder had long ago moved to the British Virgin Islands from the UK, he had a strong Central European accent and no one knew his exact country of origin. His young, dark wife was a Belonger, a native of the BVI. The Ponder family kept mostly to themselves, but because of Ponder’s charity work at Tortola’s only hospital, an annual scholarship he funded for a local student to attend nursing school in nearby Puerto Rico, and his wife’s generous contributions to her church, the Ponder family were held in high esteem throughout the community.
Most of the visitors to the Palace were women—wealthy middle-aged women who came for tummy tucks, face lifts, liposuction, breast augmentation or reduction, vaginal tightening, nose jobs, and a host of other cosmetic or elective procedures. After their surgeries, these women would usually stay at the clinic for a few days, chill by the pool, watch TV, or read while the staff pampered them and monitored their healing. Occasionally, someone famous or notorious would reserve the entire clinic for the time of his or her surgery and recovery. A second group of both women and men came for reconstructive surgery: scars, burns, and gunshot wounds. A still smaller number of patients sought Dr. Ponder out for his recognized expertise in altering and changing faces and identities. For these services, Ponder’s fees were hideously expensive, and advance payment was required in dollars, euros, renminbi, certified diamonds, or gold.
It was May, during low season on the island, and the Purple Palace had only two resident patients. Lilith, now in Maggie’s body, lay on her back on a padded lounge chair next to the pool. Lilith’s nose, chin, and throat were bandaged; she’d been through several surgical procedures and had more to go. They’d fed her a high-calorie, high-fat diet before the surgery began and she had put on ten pounds. The clinic brought in a professional beautician who recolored and restyled her short brown hair, salvaging the hack job Hattie had done before they left Castle Key. Her nails had been done and her skin treated with luxuriant oils and creams. The scratches on her ankles and legs had healed. The strong painkillers they gave her turned the world where she lived into a soft, quiet, and unthreatening space.