Randy White - Black Widow

“I don’t remember any rules. It’s one of the reasons I left.”

Yager’s voice changed. “Don’t lecture me about rules, Marion. When barbarians crash the gate, they bring the rules with them. Adapt or die. Apologize and die. Same thing. So maybe I’m not so happy to talk all of a sudden. The Marion Ford I know wouldn’t say such a thing.”

In fifteen years, the man had never spoken to me that way.

I said, “Sorry, Bernie. I was off-base.”

There was a long silence before he replied. “There you go again. Apologizing. So say a few words because Bernie’s starting to wonder who I’m really talking to.”

I smiled. It wasn’t an insult. I pictured the tough little man in the office of his adobe complex, scrambler phone on speaker now. The phone was linked to a computer system that he’d assembled lovingly. He was probably studying the monitor, comparing vocal prints, old and fresh, all seismic renderings of my voice.

Not unexpected. Bernie is legendary in the small, secret community of Electronic Warfare Information Operations. It was Bernie who invaded and compromised computer communications between Managua and Havana. It was Bernie who consistently intercepted communications between the Taliban and terrorist cells worldwide.

The man works obsessively. He’d lost his parents in a Nazi concentration camp and considered Islamists the Nazis of a new century. No wonder he’d bristled at my crack about rules. No wonder he was now confirming I was who I claimed to be.

I helped him out, saying, “It’s me, Bernie. Promise. I was a friend of your sister, remember? Eve was a good and decent lady, but sometimes things don’t turn out the way we plan.”

Yager came on the phone again, sounding friendlier but still wary. “The world is a crazy place, Marion. These are dangerous times.”

“All times are dangerous times. Especially for women like Eve. Trust the wrong man; make one bad choice at the wrong time, the wrong place. The same thing’s happening to some female friends of mine, Bernie. I’m trying to help them.”

“Drugs?”

“No, but it could ruin their lives. They could end up just as dead.”

I heard the man sigh. “Okay, okay. Tell me about it. But it’s not the same, you know. Maybe I can help. But I can’t really help. Understand?”

I said, “No. This time, I don’t understand.” With the man’s electronic surveillance capabilities, locating an extortionist on a small island would not have been difficult.

“Don’t make this harder than it is, Marion! You quit. You’re not one of us anymore. That makes you poison; part of the outside world. I’ll listen to your problem. As a friend, I’ll suggest this, discourage that. But I can’t help. So go ahead and tell me before I have a coronary-that’s how upset this is making me!”

So I told him, but only alluded to the information I needed from Saint Arc.

When I’d finished, he asked a question or two before saying, “What I think you should do is contact a man I’m not going to mention. You know the name. Talk to him, make things right again. Then you talk to me.”

He meant Hal Harrington. In my old job, Harrington was as close as I came to having a supervisor. He was a U.S. State Department intelligence consultant, and much, much more. Harrington was confidant and adviser to the military elite as well as senators and, sometimes, presidents. Hal had been a friend, he’d been an adversary. Now, I wasn’t sure where we stood.

I replied, “Bernie, I’m going to tell you something I can barely admit to myself. I did call him. More than three weeks ago.”

“You said your friends went on their vacation less than two weeks ago.”

“That’s right.” I sat through a long silence before I added, “I called the man before my friends needed help. I called twice and left messages.”

“Why? Just to chat? What are you telling me here?”

“No. Because… it’s not the way I thought it would be. The outside world, you nailed it. That’s the way it feels-outside of things. Not that I’m willing to go back and do what I was doing. A modified version, that’s what I wanted to discuss with the man. But maybe it’s too late.”

“You haven’t heard from him?”

“Nope. Almost a month it’s been.”

Sounding more distant, Bernie told me, “Then there’s your answer.”

An electronic clatter awoke me at a little after 4 p.m. Vance’s phone. It was on the nightstand with my glasses.

Caller ID flashed Beryl… Beryl… Beryl.

A determined woman.

I gave her time to leave a message, then checked. None from Beryl, but four I’d missed during my short run and swim. One from Michael, two from Elliot, all brief: Call me!

The fourth was longer. A woman’s voice, furtive, talking as if she feared being overheard. “Hey, it’s me. I just heard about your wife. My God, it’s terrible and all, but they say she’s gonna be okay. So maybe we can actually, like, spend some time together, you know? Call me at the club.”

Georgia accent. Valley Girl rhythms. Club was a nightclub. The word becomes a proper noun when referring to a country club, spoken with affected emphasis. So she was a waitress, a hostess, a stripper, or a regular at a favorite bar. A woman Vance knew well enough that her name should have been logged in caller ID. But it wasn’t.

Vance, who was desperately jealous of his wife, had a girlfriend on the side. An opportunist. She was looking forward to the free time Corey’s near-suicide provided them.

As I wrote the number in the Medusa notebook, the phone next to my bookshelf began to ring. It’s an old black desk model with buttons. No caller ID-same as the cheap answering machine. But because I recognized the woman’s voice when she began her message, I rushed to answer.

It was Beryl. She couldn’t get Vance, so she was calling me.

I answered, “Beryl?”

She said, “Why the surprise? You knew it was me, or you wouldn’t have picked up. Eavesdropped on any good conversations lately, Dr. Ford?”

I replied, “Nope. But not because I haven’t tried,” pleased with the secret honesty. She caught it.

“I believe you. I think you’re one of those people who ducks the truth by telling the truth. The innocent-looking type. You know the kind I mean? When actually they’re hell-raisers.”

“This morning you accused me of being a drug mobster. Now I’m an innocent type? I feel like I let you down.”

“What I said was, ‘drug lord or government assassin.’ ” Beryl listened a beat, as if I might reply. When I didn’t, she added, “And I don’t know you well enough to be disappointed. Shay gave me your number. Hope you don’t mind.”

I didn’t.

Beryl had just left the hospital, she said. Corey was conscious and doing better. Corey’s mother and father also were doing better. Their attorney had delayed questioning by the police.

“They called their lawyer after talking to Shay. She-the lawyer-had a private talk with Corey. The overdose was accidental. Corey knows how important that is. Her parents are really relieved, but they’re also very pissed off at Vance-as in pushing for prosecution.”

Shay was doing well, too, Beryl added. She would be released soon, possibly tomorrow.

I said, “Smart girl, your pal, Shay. Savvy and tough.”

Beryl became more businesslike. “From what Shay tells me, she’s got a very savvy godfather, too. I hope it’s true, because she told me something surprising. It was something you could’ve told me at breakfast, but didn’t. I thought we were supposed to be confidants, Dr. Ford.”

“Drop the prefix,” I said. “Maybe it’ll help me open up.”

“Okay… Ford. I just found out you plan to pay a visit to our favorite island. That you’re going there to try and solve our little problem. You know-the thing that doesn’t exist, and the night that never happened?”