Randy White - Black Widow

In the mangrove thicket where the boat was hidden, an infrared light was painting slow circles on the tree canopy. It wasn’t my infrared light. It wasn’t me who was flashing Montbard’s signal to regroup.

I ran toward the boat. Unholstered my pistol just in case, but didn’t bother trying to cover the sound of me crashing through the mangroves. Sir James was lighting his pipe when I broke through the trees.

“About time, old boy,” he said calmly. “I was beginning to worry dogs had caught more than one trespasser tonight. Poor bastard-up there poaching orchids. You heard?”

“Yes.”

“You sound a bit shaken.”

“I am. I thought it was you.”

“Could’ve been. Terrible way to go. But you would have heard at least one shot-better by my own bullet than the indignity of being ripped apart by dogs. It was a local boy, barely out of his teens. Nothing I could do.”

“A boy?”

“Sadly, yes. Athletic-looking lad; poor family, judging from his rags.” For the first time, Montbard sounded like a weary seventy-year-old man.

He had used the VHF radio, he added, and told harbor patrol that a wealthy tourist had been attacked, and might still be alive. There was a better chance they’d respond if they believed it was a tourist.

I untied the boat, started the engine. We were idling into the slow lift and fall of a trade-wind sea before I said, “I don’t know about you, but I could use one of your midnight teas.”

Montbard tapped his pipe empty before putting it in the pocket of his dinner jacket. “Right you are. A stiff whiskey or two’s just the thing.”

The Hooded Orchid was on an early-to-bed, early-to-rise schedule. Senegal and I signed the guest book before noon the next day. She was assigned Room 7, one of two dozen doors spaced along the cloister on the inland side of the monastery. I was in Room 36, a stone cubicle on the seaward side: an iron convent bed, a chair, a tiny bathroom, a pad of Persian carpet, a cross, and an incense burner in the “meditation corner.”

Couples were forbidden to “interact,” we were reminded-as if putting us in different buildings wasn’t reminder enough. Orientation was at 4 p.m.; attendance mandatory. Until then, we were asked to stay in our rooms and rest.

I didn’t feel like resting. I unpacked and headed outside.

A few minutes later, I was standing at the edge of the cliff that had scared me dizzy the night before, imitating a tourist who’d never seen the place. The rope I’d secured to the tree was hidden in the rocks. I had to peek over the safety railing to confirm it was still there.

I also was surprised to confirm that a police boat and two fishing boats were anchored at the base of the cliff. They had a line and a grappling hook attached to something that looked like a chunk of brown sponge. A man’s body. No… the man-sized body of a teen.

Surf was breaking under the rocks, geysering upward through spume holes. From where I stood, the geysers appeared stationary, like ice sculptures. I knew better. The boats were standing off because of the rocks and whirlpool currents. Not an easy place to retrieve a body-what was left of the body, anyway, after a night crashing among rocks.

I had seen the boats from our helicopter on the flight in, but didn’t get a good look. I was seated next to Senegal, but said nothing because we were crammed among four other new spa arrivals. I wouldn’t have said anything anyway until I was sure. Now I was.

This was how Isabelle Toussaint’s staff dealt with trespassers-convenient, clean, and utterly ruthless. For those with blood on their hands, high cliffs and deep water are efficient disinfectants. It is something that accomplished criminals know.

Extortionists are motivated by greed, but these were killers. Blackmail was a sideline-one of several, I suspected. How many people had gone off that cliff? If Montbard hadn’t contacted the harbor patrol, I doubted if the boy’s body would’ve been found.

It was freeing, in ways, watching the grappling hook do its work. It changed the rules. It expanded the limits of my own conduct. I’m not a policeman; was never trained in the protocols of assembling evidence. But I know how to deal with killers. After years in the trade, I am competent.

Freeing, yes. But I was also aware that somewhere a mother was grieving. The teen’s family would turn from his coffin with scars they would carry to their own graves. Through association, I was now vested in their loss-I had heard the boy’s screams. Only sociopaths and the righteous feel unconstrained by convention. I was suddenly at liberty to take righteous action.

A few days before, I’d tried to make Shay smile, saying her blackmailers had no idea who they were dealing with.

Now it was true.

“Excuse me, sir. The Lookout’s off-limits to guests. You need to return to your room.”

I turned to see the man I’d mistaken for Ritchie. Similar size; muscles under the white shirt with its Hooded Orchid logo. Otherwise, there was no resemblance on this afternoon of

sunlight and low silver clouds. He had shoulder-length black hair, a geometric chin, and spoke articulate English with a French accent. His name tag read: FABRON MMT.

Was Fabio a derivative of Fabron? He looked a little like the guy I’d seen on the cover of romance novels. Maybe he’d picked it out himself, like a vanity license plate.

Standing behind Fabron, like a shadow, was a tiny woman in a blue maid’s uniform, her expression blank. She remained disinterested as I smiled, put my arms out, palms up, to let the man know I felt confused and foolish. I also didn’t want him to get close enough to spot the rope. “Off-limits? Geez, sorry. Didn’t know. Maybe you should put up a sign or something-”

“We don’t use signs. Guests are expected to know monastery rules. We expect the rules to be followed.”

A smooth, condescending manner-Fabron had something else in common with Ritchie.

I said, “Monastery? I was under the impression my lady friend and I were at a health spa, not a church retreat.” A joke-I chuckled. Fabron didn’t. The woman’s expression remained blank, as if she didn’t hear.

“Whatever impression you got, sir, it’s wrong. This is a monastery, a sacred part of the spa grounds. That’s how we refer to it. Maybe you weren’t paying attention at orientation. Occasionally, guests find it’s helpful to go through orientation twice.”

At the front desk, a woman with a German accent had been just as arrogant-suspicious, too. Same with the attendant who’d shown us to our rooms. From their reactions, I could tell they recognized Senegal, but it had only fueled their rudeness. Maybe people came to a place like this as atonement for personal excesses. If the staff treated guests as subordinates, it was probably encouraged.

Interesting. What were the staff’s limits? I was curious.

“Your name’s Fabron?”

The man blinked at my stupidity. "Yes. That is why I chose to have it on my name tag.”

“What’s M-M-T stand for?”

“Male Massage Therapist, sir.”

“Back rubs, huh?”

The man reacted, but caught himself. “Ask all the questions you want at orientation. What I’m telling you is the Lookout’s off-limits. Must I tell you again?”

Fabron turned, expecting me to follow.

I didn’t.

When he glanced back, I touched the safety railing, and pointed at the boats. “Looks like I’m not the only one who missed orientation, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a body down there-a man. Do you think the spa’s gonna give the guy his money back?” I still wore the harmless smile.

Fabron’s nostrils widened, but it backed him down a notch. “One of the locals drowned. Too bad, but you know how it is-islanders don’t receive swimming lessons. They go out in homemade boats, anyway. They are stupid. Spend time on this island, you will learn it’s true.”