Randy White - Black Widow

I replied, “I have to be in the area anyway, so why not?”

“Oh, please.”

“It happens to be true. I’m working on a project that has to do with jellyfish. There’s a rare species found in that section of the Caribbean, so I have to go anyway. Not very interesting, but it’s what I do.”

“True?” Her signature question, I realized.

I echoed, “True.”

“Then you are going.”

“Yes-but not for fun. When I’m not holed up working, reading journals and making notes, I’ll use the free time to talk to authorities and ask a few questions. I doubt if there’s much I can do.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. Sunday at the latest.”

Beryl asked, “Do you want company?” She said it so coolly, it took a second to register.

“What?”

“You heard me. I can help. I know details you don’t. Who, what, when, where-it’ll save a lot of time. And I am motivated.”

“You sound mad, not motivated.”

“I’m both. You said Shay-shay’s tough? Have you ever asked her about me?”

“No. Should I?”

“I’ll leave that up to you. Maybe she’ll tell you the truth.” That hint of animus again-Beryl and Shay weren’t as buddy-buddy as I’d believed.

I said, “I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Okay. I’ll skip the personal history and give you the short version: I don’t like being manipulated, and I won’t tolerate being bullied. I’m not some naive airhead. I’m a big girl, reasonably intelligent, and I’m good at getting what I want. Can’t we at least talk about it over drinks?”

Whew.

Tempting, but I couldn’t.

I said, “Sorry, Beryl. The problem is-”

“I know, I know, you always travel alone. Shay told me you’d say that. But know what else she said? She said your marina has a party every Friday night. And if I really wanted to convince you, I should show up whether you invited me or not, and have an honest talk. Shay says you’re big on honesty.”

When I started to speak, the woman interrupted again. “Tonight’s Friday. Maybe I’ll be at the party, maybe I won’t. But I’ll tell you this, Ford-I don’t need your permission to go to Saint Arc. If I decide to go, I’m going.”

“But, Beryl-”

She hung up.

I wandered around the lab, too wired to sleep, too much on my mind to work. Tried different scenarios that included an auburn-haired female who left a wake of staring men when exiting a room, and whom the bad guys already knew.

Beryl was right. I travel alone. How could I explain carrying weapons and night-vision gear to a woman who’d grown up in a privileged, protected world?

No way.

To get my mind off it, I went to the computer, sat, and researched techniques for restoring charred paper. Found an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences that was useful, and e-mailed the two experts it quoted, and a third expert who was mentioned in the footnotes.

A handwritten letter of personal interest was damaged by fire before I had a chance to read it. I have no interest in restoration, but I would like to know the letter’s contents. Would you be willing to advise me on methods of data recovery…?

Next, I compiled background material on Saint Arc.

Officially named Saint Joan of Arc, this tiny island in the Eastern Caribbean chain is eight miles long and four miles wide, and a member of the French Commonwealth. The island is one of four French overseas departments in the Caribbean. The others are Martinique, French Guiana, and Guadeloupe-all former French colonies.

Because of this, Saint Arc is governed by French law and its citizens are legally French citizens, although France seldom interferes with the local government.

First inhabitants were Arawak who mixed with escaped slaves called Maroons (derived from the Spanish, Cimarron, meaning “untamed” or “wild”). Later, pirates used the island as a base. Saint Arc remained unsettled by Europeans, and was a lawless stronghold until the mid-1700s, when a French weapons manufacturer began purchasing bird guano, used in the making of gunpowder.

In the 1770s, when England took control of nearby Saint Lucia, Loyalists fleeing the American Revolution were commonly awarded land grants by the crown as a reward. The growing population of Loyalists soon spilled over onto nearby Saint Arc. Today, tourists are often surprised to discover that a large percentage of native islanders are white…

Escaped slaves, pirates, gunpowder. On an island with that kind of history, blackmail would be considered a benign enterprise.

I went for a short run, stopped at the beach at the end of Tarpon Bay Road, and swam two laps around the NO WAKE buoys before returning to the computer. I still had to book a flight.

I could fly Air Jamaica out of Miami, switch planes in Montego Bay, and be on Saint Arc by early tomorrow afternoon, depending on whether I took a boat or a private plane from nearby Saint Lucia. Or there was an Avianca flight that stopped in Bogota, but got in two hours later…

But how the hell could I take the weapons I needed on a commercial flight?

I’d figure out something, I decided, or buy what I needed locallywhich meant taking another five thousand euros from the floor safe.

Because Jamaican airports are a nightmare, I booked a commuter flight to Miami, then a first-class seat on Avianca departing 12:35 a.m.

I’d have to be on the road early, so I finished packing, then cleaned up the mess left by Vance Varigono. As I did, I thought about Shay and her attempt to apologize for not asking me to give her away at the wedding. I hadn’t considered it a slight until Michael mentioned it.

Now, though, it made sense. There were reasons enough for a success-oriented woman like Shay to keep her distance. My occupation had to be guessed at, though never openly. To Shay’s friends, I was kindly, bookish, and weird.

But Shay was savvy enough to assemble the truth about me even without the help of concrete details. No wonder she’d asked another man to give her away. No wonder she’d never introduced me to her prospective in-laws. To finesse that without alienating anyone took a hell of a lot of thought and effort. I admired her unsentimental approach.

Hadn’t I constructed the woman’s caricature to reflect my own conceits?

It didn’t cause me to doubt her loyalty. I was the man she came running to when she needed help.

An hour before sunset…

Through the window, I could see the encampment of buildings that was Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Fishing guides were in for the day, hunkered together at the picnic tables outside the Red Pelican Gift Shop. Probably eating fried conch sandwiches and debating where to fish the next morning.

The Friday night party was taking shape, too. Mack, the owner, was lugging a tub of beer to the docks. Three new lady live-aboards-Jane, Deanne, and Heidi-were his cheerful, smiling overseers. Guys in Jensen Marina’s beach band, the Trouble Starters, were testing speakers, and it looked like Danny Morgan and Jim Morris were sitting in.

Big night-the summer solstice. A few people would be wearing Druid robes; almost everyone would be behaving like heathens. A good night for Beryl to crash the party, except for one thing-the woman I’d been dating would be at the party, too.

Well… sort of dating: Kathleen Rhodes, Ph. D. A fellow marine biologist and a former love interest who seemed determined to make me her current love interest.

Through the window, I could see the pretty trawler Kathleen called home. The Darwin C. White hull, green trim. It was moored at the deep-water docks between a soggy old Chris Craft, Tiger Lily, and Coach Mike’s thirty-eight-foot-long Sea Ray, Playmaker. The trawler had been at the marina only a few weeks, so still caught the eye.