Randy White - Black Widow

“I certainly hope not; I had this tailored in Hanoi. Pure silk, you know. Bugger of a job to get stains out. Ford?-” He was straightening the jacket’s lapels now. “-would you mind very much staying on post until ten forty-five? A fifteen-minute lead on a Brazilian mastiff is more than enough-even if you are slightly out of training. I’ll pull stakes no later than ten fifty-five. Or thereabouts.”

I said, “But before we make any decisions, there’s something you need to know-the actress isn’t an actress.”

I told him about Beryl. When I’d finished, he gave the situation some thought before saying, “That gorgeous woman is here posing as your fiance?”

“I have no idea. I mentioned the place in a phone message, that’s all. She’s… a resourceful woman.”

“That may make it a bit sticky for our girl Senegal, don’t you think?”

“For all of us. Maybe worse for Beryl if Ritchie and Clovis work here. She wants revenge.”

“When you say revenge, you mean-”

“I’m not sure. If she had access to a weapon, violence maybe. Beryl’s motivated. She has more reason than most.”

“I shouldn’t ask any particulars, I gather.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But do you really think she would-”

“I wouldn’t be shocked. She’s not as even-tempered as Senegal.”

“Really. Part angel, part lioness, eh?” Montbard liked that. “What a splendid creature-you can tell me more about her later. But I think Lady Beryl is actually in less danger here among the enemy, so to speak. Those two cretins won’t dare lay a hand on her while she’s a guest. And it’s all the more reason for me to slip down and mingle.”

“No way. I’m not leaving you. Let’s drop the stiff-upper-lip stuff, please.”

“Don’t be silly! This is a perfect opportunity to discover where the old girl keeps her treasures. Stick with Madame Toussaint. Keep your eyes open. If I’m not back at the boat by midnight, it simply means I’ve taken a different route down the mountain. Return to Saint Lucia without me.”

“But where will you-”

“My God, man! This won’t be the first time I’ve grabbed a bit of kip without a roof over my head. I’ll take the morning ferry and meet you for breakfast at Jade Mountain. The buffet’s excellent. Say, ten-ish? Have a Bloody Mary waiting, won’t you?”

I was rubbing my forehead, annoyed.

“Oh… a couple of details.” He was putting a fountain pen in his pocket, next a lighter. “The moment we split up, night vision is required. I have my little infrared. You have your lovely little Triad flashlight. No one will be the wiser. Swing the light side to side, it will mean stand fast, something interesting may happen. Circular motion means regroup immediately. Rapid series of dashes means danger approaching, run. Got that?”

He added, “And remember to keep your eye open for the Misericord. A secure little structure where monks were punished-it would fit with Madame Toussaint’s psychological profile.”

I said, “Someone’s compiled a profile?”

“Several dozen pages.”

“A professional?”

“I’d like to think so. I already knew a fair bit about Toussaint because of the monastery, but I really went to work on it when Senegal told me about her problem. Ample time to put together a decent profile.” Then he added, “You have no idea who I am, do you, old boy?” He said it as if he found me entertaining.

I said, “No… but I’m starting to get the picture. James? Hey

… Hooker.”

He was already moving down the hill, straightening his jacket, using fingers to neaten his silver hair. When he got to the fence, I watched him hide his bag behind a tree, then reach for something growing near a low limb. An orchid.

Sir James inserted the flower into his lapel. He patted it in place before scaling the fence.

I was straddling a tree limb outside Isabelle Toussaint’s chateau when I heard the man scream. It was the frantic, soprano wail of someone who was falling… or being mauled.

Sir James?

Had to be, although it was impossible to identify the voice. It was an unearthly bawling mixed with what resembled the rumble of a distant waterfall.

No… not a waterfall. It was the rumble of growling dogs.

Only five minutes earlier I’d been lying belly-down on the stone wall that enclosed the woman’s estate, when the power went out. Not just her house-the entire property, lodge and monastery included. A moment later, emergency lights blinked on. Frail blue beams in the darkness. Simultaneously, I heard a warbling siren, like a police car in an old French film. A fire alarm or a burglar alarm.

The Englishman had wasted no time.

I’d been wearing the night-vision monocular, as instructed. From a forested area unexpectedly close to the house, an infrared flashlight painted horizontal streaks on trees. Montbard’s signal: Stand fast, something’s going to happen.

I no longer doubted the man, but I wasn’t in position.

I’d dropped over the wall and jogged toward the rear of the house. The area was landscaped with hedges, like an old English garden. A maze of hedges, literally. Ficus trees cut low, roots like bars, so it was impossible to bust through the hedge when I came to a dead end. I encountered several dead ends. Maddening.

It took a couple tries before I exited into a garden behind the chateau. The chateau was built over a wedge of stone ruins that disappeared into the side of the mountain like a storm cellar. There was a terrace, a lily pond, a marble statue of Saint Francis, trees weighted with moss, bromeliads, orchids. One of the trees had limbs low enough to climb, and I did. Pulled myself up as a light came on inside the house. Someone had struck a match to an oil lamp.

It was Isabelle Toussaint. She was a ghostly figure, carrying the lamp in both hands as she glided through the house. The interior was over-furnished, like a museum storeroom. I could see tapestries and ornate furniture and paintings in heavy frames. There were religious icons on every wall. Crosses… a life-sized carving of Christ in agony. It was like watching a series of TV screens as the woman disappeared, then reappeared inside glowing windows and glassed French doors.

The alarm was still warbling. Toussaint looked concerned-turning her head to listen, sniffing the distant wood smoke, touching a hand to her necklace-but in control. Apparently, power outages were common on the mountain. The alarm, though, troubled her.

She had removed her hood. I watched her lean over the lamp to light a thin black cheroot, smoking unself-consciously as she crossed into the kitchen where there were skillets and pots suspended on hooks above a stainless gas stove. Beyond the refrigerator was a narrow staircase-the servant’s back steps to the second floor. On the wall next to the staircase was an oversized painting: an infant’s white crib in a black room. Bizarre.

The woman poured a glass of wine, sniffed the air once again, testing for fire despite her cigarette. Once again, she touched fingers to the Midnight Star sapphire… then turned toward the window, startled, because of a sudden, piercing sound outside. The screaming had begun.

It was a man’s voice, shrill… vocal cords tearing as terror peaked. After several seconds, the bawling transitioned into a series of ragged shrieks. Terror had become pain.

"Godohgodohgod… HELP MEEEEEEEE!”

The confusing sound of a waterfall became the snarling, clacking chorus of dogs dragging down prey. I kept telling myself it wasn’t Sir James’s voice. But it was coming from the forested area where he’d last used the infrared to signal. Who else could it be?

“Noooooo… NO!”

When horror is converted into childlike cries, panic becomes transmittable.