Randy White - Black Widow

“The robes still up there to this day! I tell you ’cause I know it true. One night, I seen it with me own eyes, them empty robes comin’ down the mountain, candles for faces. Trottin’ alongside was a wild pack of mal vu chien. Them animals glowed, so I knew they was demons. .. on fire with bawe yo.”

I wrote in my notebook:

Mal vu chien: Demon dogs; hounds from hell

“Any wonder the islanders stay away from the monastery?” Sir James had said as we drove away. “Madame Toussaint takes pains to ensure her privacy.”

He wasn’t talking only about the mythical dogs. According to Lucien, worse things awaited people who ventured onto the mountain at night.

“Some say the real Maji Blanc live up there now,” Lucien had told us, “but I seen that Madame Toussaint. She were wearin’ black, not white. I think she invented that tale, make peoples think she become beautiful at midnight. But I feel she a vitch, you ask my opinion. Obayifo, or a sukkoy-uan, that what we old people calls her.”

A vitch, the old man explained, had the power to quit their bodies and travel great distances in the night, and could be identified by a foul odor and a phosphorescent light visible in the hair, armpits, and anus. A thirsty vitch sucked the sap and juices from crops, but their real power came from human victims.

My notebook:

Sukkoy-uan or obayifo: Vampire witch who drinks blood to stay young

Sir James WHISPERED, “Males on one side, females on the other. Senegal will be very pleased by that. I think you make her nervous, Ford.”

I said, “She doesn’t strike me as the nervous type.”

“Not just you, old boy, don’t take it personally. It applies to most men, which is why I’m surprised she was lured into this fix. Interesting, your theory about victims being drugged. Do those people look as if they’ve been drugged to you?”

We were positioned in a clearing looking down on the monastery, where there was a quadrangle with miniature spires at the four corners, tile-roofed buildings within, and a cemetery on the seaward side. Torches added medieval light.

Within the walls, eleven people sat on mats, facing a fire, meditating or doing yoga, men on one side, women on the other. A few wore monks’ robes with hoods and rope belts. Others wore jogging suits or leotards, or white surgical scrubs as baggy as robes. Japanese flute and the sound of chanting drifted upward on incense.

I whispered, “You mean drugged with MDA?”

“The love potion you mentioned. Whatever it was they slipped Senny.”

I said, “No. I think they’d have the robes off by now, hugging, talking loud, laughing-something.”

Sir James said, “Quite,” and pressed binoculars to his eyes again. After several seconds, he said, “Why eleven? Five men, six women. If they accept only couples, shouldn’t it be an even number?”

I had called the Hooded Orchid earlier and confirmed that Marion W. North and friend did have reservations starting tomorrow. In Montbard’s mind, for some reason, that made me an expert.

I said, “They make exceptions, I guess. Or maybe the couples were given a choice: do meditation here, or hang out at the pool bar next door.”

Montbard swung the binoculars toward the lodge. “That makes sense. Looks a bit more interesting over there among the heathens-often the case in my travels. Folks are chatting, not chanting, at least. More like a cocktail party than this dreary business.”

He was looking to the west, where the retreat’s modern facilities were layered into the mountain with elevated walkways, subdued lighting, a four-lane lap pool and dip pools glowing blue beneath the rental suites. There were three white vans in the tiny parking lot, only a couple of cars.

Sir James had told me the road up the mountain was a private one-lane, with two security checkpoints on the hour drive to the top. The maximum number of guests was less than thirty, and most arrived via helicopter from Saint Lucia’s Hewanorra Airport. Because of repeat clientele, there was no need for the lodge to advertise. Judging from the scarcity of articles, it also did not offer journalists a free stay in exchange for stories.

Montbard did find a piece on international spas in a magazine that mentioned the place. He’d shared the clip.

HOODED ORCHID RETREAT AND SPA, ISLAND, EASTERN CARIBBEAN

Called simply the “Orchid” by its devotees, and named for a rare wild orchid that grows on the island, this spa claims to offer “rare elixirs” made from local fruits and herbs, as well as purifying ceremonies that slow the aging process and rechannel libido.

Incorporating the ruins of a French Cistercian monastery, spa operators make up for limited amenities by maintaining the monastic spirit. The operation caters to “betrothed or wedded couples.” Even so, guests are assigned separate quarters and are expected to remain celibate during their stay, while following a strict schedule that includes exercise, meditation, and “purification.”

Here, sex is considered toxic, and sin is taboo-but money still counts for something at this cultish retreat. Despite a three-star rating, the Orchid is a favorite dry-out spot for bad-boy rockers, royalty, and Hollywood film stars, whether they are “betrothed” or arrive alone. But don’t rush to make plane reservations. “We are not actively seeking new clientele,” a spa spokesperson said.

Along with the article, Sir James had made a detailed map of the area by printing a satellite photo onto sketch paper, then labeling it. He’d also created a rough diagram of the monastery’s layout.

He took out the diagram now and compared what he saw with what he’d drawn.

“Not bad for guesswork,” he told me as I looked over his shoulder. “Got most of it right.”

I said, “There was no data available?”

“Very little. But I suspected the design was similar to a template created by the Knights Templar. The Templars were warrior monks. They returned from the Crusades with drawings of Solomon’s Temple. See here-” He touched a finger to the diagram. “-here’s the portico that borders the courtyard, then the second courtyard where those dreary people are chanting. The roofed walkway… the cloister. The doors leading off the portico are dormitories where the monks slept. It’s all joined by arcades and passageways.”

I said, “Passageways?”

“When Mother Church was burning her critics at the stake, underground tunnels were a sensible addition. You’ve spent time in Central America. Supposedly, they’re a fixture in the old churches there.”

A tunnel dug during the Inquisition had once saved my life. I said, “I’ve heard rumors. How do you know all this?”

He began to toy with the Masonic ring on his right hand: skull and crossbones; squares and dividers. “I belong to a sort of fraternity that studies the subject. If I told you how many years the group’s been collecting information, you wouldn’t believe me.”

I said, “You’re a Freemason. I noticed your ring last night.”

“I’m surprised you made the connection. Very few associate the Masons with this symbol.” He held the ring toward me even though it was too dark to decipher detail. “The Knights Templar were the original pirates of the Caribbean. Their ships flew the skull and bones long before Hollywood got the idea. When we get back to Saint Lucia, I’ll give you an article to read.”

He hesitated before asking carefully, “You mentioned that you’re a traveling man. Are you?”

Strange question. I said, “Of course.”

The man suspected I was confused, but he wanted to confirm it. “You’re here for the sake of the widow’s son? You came from the east, traveling west.”