Randy White - Black Widow

It explained how Elliot knew what he knew. Michael Jonquil, too. But three minutes wasn’t enough time for Vance to go into detail about what he’d found on his wife’s computer.

Would he tell them the rest? Of course. I’d scared him, but Vance was a type, and his type recovered fast. If the cops found him, though, it might be a couple of days before Vance had free time to spend with his fraternity brothers. Detectives would question him about Corey’s bruises and her overdose. How would he explain where he was between the hours of 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.? He couldn’t use me as an alibi, so he would lie. Good cops always know. Could be that Vance was sitting in jail right now, nursing his dislocated elbow.

I toggled back a few days into the call log and found the four-digit code he used to retrieve voice mail. I called and used it.

All messages erased.

From my office-supply cabinet, I selected a fresh spiral notebook, reporter-sized. I can tally the number of trips I’ve taken by the number of similar notebooks stacked in my file drawers, or hidden away. Each trip gets its own, no matter how sparse the notes.

I retuned to the desk and wrote Medusa on the cover. Medusa is the free-swimming, predatory phase of animals in the phylum cnidarians. Medusa-the rare jellyfish found off Saint Arc. Research would be my excuse for returning to the island.

I sat for a few minutes making notes about yesterday’s trip to Saint Arc. After leaving the Bank of Aruba, I had followed the blackmailer’s bagman to a bar called the Green Turtle, then to a parking lot where he got into a Fiat. I had noted the license-plate number on a business card. I found the card, copied the number into the notebook, then flipped to a back page where I copied numbers from Vance’s phone.

When I was done, I thought for a moment, then slipped the phone into my pocket, power on. It might be interesting to monitor the man’s calls.

Vance had come way too close to killing me not to pay attention.

Gear for my trip to Saint Arc was on the bed: two semiautomatic pistols, ammunition, a dive knife, Rocket fins, two masks, a compact spear gun, black watch cap, military face paint, handheld VHF radio with built-in GPS, two false passports, a satellite phone, Triad flashlight, infrared Golight, an envelope containing $10,000 in euros …

I had the hidden floor locker open. The collection grew as I moved between the bedroom, the lab, and my boat.

My boat… that’s what I needed. Saint Arc was only a few miles from Saint Lucia. I wanted to book a room on Saint Lucia and use a boat to slip on and off Saint Arc. It would be cleaner that way. But I didn’t want to rent some tourist junker from an island marina. You can’t check a twenty-one-foot Maverick at the luggage counter, and I was going to have a tough-enough time getting firearms on a commercial airliner, then past the Saint Arc customs officers. They weren’t well-trained, they weren’t methodical, but they weren’t idiots, either.

Weapons and a decent boat…

I have operated in parts of the world where I had neither, but it was rare. I could usually rely on my contacts to provide equipment. I needed their help now. So why was I putting off making the calls?

From the fireproof box, I took a weathered address book. Blue cover; alphabet tabs broken off. Most entries in pencil-pencil because it can be erased, but also because ink bleeds if soaked in a jungle storm.

As I leafed through the pages, I found my attention wandering to the videocassette, which I’d placed on the bed while packing. I had already checked it for serial numbers and identifying marks-nothing to distinguish it from millions of other Panasonic DVD tapes. But now, when I looked at it, Beryl Woodward came into my head. Her face, the auburn hair, her aloofness and heat. Her voice, too.

Especially after seeing some of the clips from that tape-my God. I would’ve watched. I’d pretended like I hadn’t, but I would’ve watched from beginning to end.

I could hear her saying it, words clipped by wealth and the careful genetics of her caste. The inflection when she said, I would’ve watched. The stage innocence of her inflection on my God.

It wasn’t a tease. The subject had changed her breathing. But why tell me? Was she granting permission? Or was she suggesting something …?

Buzz.

I jumped, startled. My pocket was vibrating. It took a long, weird second to remember I was carrying Vance’s phone. I took it and checked caller ID without answering.

The brain converts thought waves into electrical energy, Tomlinson often tells me. Like-minded people communicate without saying a word. On the same wavelength is the cliche that proves how common it is.

At times, I secretly believe him. Like now. The name “Beryl” was flashing on the tiny screen.

Vance had Beryl Woodward logged in his phone book. But why was she calling him? At breakfast, she’d told me how much she distrusted the guy.

I waited for the vibration to stop, feeling ridiculous because I was so tempted to answer. I didn’t.

Instead, I gave it an ungentlemanly-like minute, then punched in the four-digit code to find out if Beryl had left a message.

She didn’t.

I had a list of my old contacts in front of me while I used the office phone. The satellite phone was on the desk, too, but it didn’t work. Deactivated, said a computer-generated voice.

Fitting. I’d been deactivated, too.

The list included deep-cover spooks, and State Department suits of the clandestine variety. They can be found in embassies worldwideFifth Floor men, they are sometimes called, because it’s the traditional office space. When career staffers use the phrase “He’s a Fifth Floor guy,” they sometimes give it a chiding, insider’s twist because it’s a way of voicing disapproval without risking transfer.

The names included men I’d known and trusted for years.

I dialed Donald Piao Cheng, now one of the top execs in U.S. Customs. Donald couldn’t disguise his surprise, or his discomfort, when he recognized my voice. He said he couldn’t talk, but would call me back. Instinct told me he wouldn’t.

It took several tries, but I finally located Harry Bernstein, a Texan who spoke Spanish with a drawl so Southern he sounded like one of the Beverly Hillbillies in a badly dubbed movie. We weren’t friends, but we’d worked together in Central America. I wondered if Harry’s Spanish had improved.

I didn’t find out. Harry refused to take my call.

I tried a couple more names before skipping to the end of the list. There were two men I felt sure would help… or at least explain why they couldn’t.

General Juan Rivera was an old adversary who’d become a friend. He played baseball, wore a Castro beard, and maintained homes (and wives) at several jungle camps in Central America. The man had power and he could pull a lot of strings, as he’d proven to me more than once.

Living in the jungle, though, makes communication unreliable, so I didn’t expect Rivera to answer his phone. He didn’t. I left a message telling him it was urgent, and that I would also send an e-mail.

Next on the list was Bernie Yager, an elite member of the U.S. intelligence community whose specialty was electronic warfare. He lived in desert, not jungle-Scottsdale, Arizona.

Bernie would answer if he was at home. He would be eager to help.

I was half right.

"Marion, oh, Marion,” Yager said in a tone that was scolding but also sad. “Why did you wait to contact me? You need advice, you don’t call. Such a big decision, you don’t call. So name one person who is better qualified than Bernie. You can’t. Now you call.”

I asked, “Does that mean we can’t talk?”

“For you? A friend I would stick an arm into fire up to here for. Of course we can talk. But we can’t talk. Understand what I’m saying? You, of all people, understand how the rules work in our world.”