Randy White - Black Widow

I removed the necklace and held it to the light, thinking that maybe Shay deserved a special wedding present-if she still wanted to marry Michael after learning the truth about his vicious family. The sapphire glittered, revealing a blue-black world within. Reminded me of a lighted aquarium, with crystal walls that isolated; a weightless space where beautiful predators might drift. Tempting.

On those nights when Tomlinson and I discuss-debate, really-matters of spirituality, he is quick to remind me that my rigid, Darwinist’s view of the world does not explain my own moral compass. It’s irritating because he’s right. So I’ve come to accept conscience as yet another of my irrational conceits. I have to live with myself.

I returned the necklace to its box, returned the box to the safe, and closed the drawer.

I wanted to take or destroy all the videos and film, along with the woman’s computer. There was a lot of misery in that rotating file, but I couldn’t fit all of the cassettes plus the money into my backpack. Moral compass or not, I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave the money. I needed another bag.

I was looking at the wooden door, wondering if it was a storage closet or a bathroom when, for the first time, I heard a banging noise coming from the other side. I placed the pack on the floor and I drew my gun. Heard the noise again, and reconsidered: Maybe the smart thing to do was grab my backpack and run.

But it was an unusual, muted sound, familiar on some basic level. Panic muted by constriction-like that. Reminded me of the thumping sound a rabbit might make while succumbing to the patient jaws of a snake.

I walked to the door and put my ear against it. The cries of a person who’s been gagged also register on a primal level, and that’s what I heard. I cracked the door… then pulled it wide, gun raised

… and I nearly squeezed the trigger when a woman lunged at me with a knife.

I backpedaled as she charged me. Then slapped her strong arms aside, hearing the knife clatter on tile, and swung her against the wall, gun to her temple. She stopped struggling as I looked into her eyes-liquid amber eyes, glazed with fear.

Slowly, I lowered the gun.

“Norma?”

I said the name again as her eyes cleared with recognition. “Norma!”

The woman stood looking at me, stunned. Then she pushed away as if ashamed, crying, “I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t do it. Thank God it’s you, because I need help. I just can’t make myself stab her.”

Behind Norma, on the bathroom floor, next to an antique tub, was Isabelle Toussaint. She lay with her ankles, hands, and mouth bound with duct tape, her white gown pulled up above her chest, panties gone. The sight of her made me wince, and I looked away. Norma had surprised the woman while she was using the toilet.

“Paul, she killed my Paul,” Norma sobbed. She stepped toward me, and I let her bury her face against my chest. “That poor boy only came up the mountain to tell me his father died. But this bitch put the dogs on him, anyway. Used the same dogs to kill my son that took my husband’s legs, and made him a beggar.”

Her son? Not her nephew? Now things became clearer.

Toussaint recognized me. She began to grunt as she inch-wormed across the tile, pleading with wild, wide eyes. Did she really expect me to help her?

I knelt, retrieved the knife, and told Norma, “Fill that tub with water.” When I said it, Toussaint made a sound that resembled a scream.

It was while lugging the computer tower into the bathroom that I remembered what Norma had said about having her mouth taped. They could’ve drowned me, easy. She was explaining the heightened fear that accompanied vulnerability.

Not a bad idea. Drown Toussaint.

I put the computer into the tub and popped the cover. Positioned it under the spigot; noticed what might have been a memory board and ripped it free before I forced myself to look down at the woman.

It was painful, the sight of her. Not only because of her body, but because she was terrified. It was in her eyes.

I felt an irrational twinge of sympathy, but it passed quickly. Fabron and Wolfie had suffered ultimate terror at my hands, yet I didn’t feel remorse. I felt a clinical indifference. Norma had described Toussaint looking into her eyes, hoping to see fear. How many faces had Toussaint searched with the same sick need? Being a hermaphrodite didn’t give her license to make life hell for others.

Toussaint watched me as I looked at the bathtub, opened both valves full, then looked at her. “The four girls from Florida you blackmailed- one of them’s dead because of you.”

The woman shook her head and grunted, breathing faster.

I reached into the tub. The computer tower made a gurgling sound of displaced air when I turned it over. “Did you ever see The Wizard of Oz? The scene where Dorothy throws water on the witch?”

I could tell by Toussaint’s frantic reaction that she had.

“What does the witch say as she’s melting? Something about ‘all my beautiful evil.’ You’re a witch, Isabelle. If I put you in this tub, would you melt?”

She made the grunting, screaming noise again, and began to snake-crawl on her back, inching toward the door.

I stepped over her and blocked her way. “But I’m not goin’ to drown you. Instead, I’m sending you to hell.”

She looked at me, her eyes intent.

“I’ve got your tapes, Isabelle. Your political connections won’t save you. One of them is of the French president’s wife. Even if your island cops don’t care, the French cops will.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

“French law overrules Saint Arc law-but I guess you know that. You’re going to prison. For someone like you-” It took an effort not to glance at her genitals. “-prison will be worse than hell.”

I knelt and picked up the white robe, ignoring her muffled screams and her lunging attempt to bite me through the tape. I covered the Maji Blanc more carefully than she deserved, and closed the bathroom door behind me.

Sir James came into the office as I stood at the safe, dropping more bricks of cash into my backpack. His face was grimy, smudged with blood, his ascot gone. What the hell had he been doing? Looked like his bag was already full, too, but I said, “If you’re not too busy, clean out that file. There’re about twenty more videos.” I would tell him about Toussaint later.

Norma was exhausted, sitting limp in a chair, and gave me a lookWho the hell’s he? I winked, telling her it was okay as Montbard said, “You’ve already found the tapes? And also made a beautiful new friend, I see.”

I was on adrenal overload, and not in the mood for his chivalrous bullshit.

“Yeah, I have them-no thanks to you. So get busy. Whoever’s banging around upstairs could come down any second, or send one of those damn dogs-”

“Temper, temper,” Montbard interrupted, an odd, sweaty smile on his face. “I was the one banging around up there. And the gentleman who required my attention is now tied and gagged, locked in a closet. Called me an ‘old man,’ the cheeky bastard. And his damn dog is deadbut at a price.” He held up his left hand. Fingers and wrist were wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. Looked like the sleeve of his jacket was soaked, too.

“I haven’t been totally useless, you see. I also have the keys to the man’s vehicle-although I have no idea where it’s parked.” He went silent for a moment. Lifted the handkerchief gently and checked his watch-a little pool of blood had already collected at his feet. “Hmm, my diversion’s two minutes late. I do apologize for that.”

Sounding dazed and exhausted, Norma said, “We don’t need his car. I came in a van from staff housing. It’s outside.”