“I was parched… didn’t even realize it until this moment. But what I really need is a tumbler of gin. God, what I’d give for a bottle of iced Plymouth.” She laughed-yes, a strong woman-then looked toward the light that angled from the bathroom. “Would we be safer there?”
I said, “I’ll check.” A few seconds later, I said, “It’s clear.”
She was still thirsty. The glass hid her face as she came toward me. I was saying, “I think it’s best if we-” but stopped as she lowered the glass. When Senegal saw my expression, she looked at the floor, as if ashamed, and covered her left cheek with the palm of her hand. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
I had to move her hand to look. What I’d mistaken for shadow was a bruise that was beginning to swell, already showing purple hues.
“He hit you.”
She nodded, still looking at the floor. When I released her hand, she used it to hide the bruise again.
“More than once?”
“No. Well… only hard once. But I told you, I hit him first. Gave him a hell of a whack. I was surprised no one heard us! And during the massage, I let him go farther than I should-it’s only right to admit it. I don’t know what got into me. So, in a way, he’s not entirely to blame.”
It was a struggle to keep my voice low. “That’s nonsense. You know it.” Now I was beginning to shake.
“I’m only trying to be fair. And there’s something else-please understand. I can’t bear to have my photo in any more magazines. Or more stories telling lies about my personal life. A woman who whores about in the tropics, that’s how they’ll portray me. It’s precisely what will happen if we complain to management, or the police-”
I said, “You’re in charge. I won’t say a word,” as I sat next her. “Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do. So calm down, it’s going to be okay. We need to get some ice on that bruise.”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your understanding-” Senegal flinched when I rested my hand on her shoulder, then turned to look at me. “Your body’s shaking. Why?”
I stood and found the ice bucket. “I’m upset,” I said, because it was easier than explaining symptoms of rage. “It’s not safe here. As a favor, I’d like you to return to Saint Lucia in the morning. There’s a woman in Room three, a few doors down. Her name’s Beryl. She’s leaving on the first helicopter, too.”
“You met her here?”
“It’s a long story. Do you remember my room number? If there’s trouble, go there. The door’s unlocked.”
I handed her a washcloth packed with ice, and watched her touch it to her face. “I’ll have some things to do, so don’t worry if I’m not there.” I drew the little semiautomatic and tossed it on the bed. “Use this if you need to-and don’t forget about Beryl. She’s a friend.”
I made sure the woman’s door locked behind me, and I jogged toward the cliff they called the Lookout.
30
The employee who had created a situation, who had done something stupid, was Norma. As far as I knew, all she’d done was entrust me with the truth. If that was her crime, the truth had a heavy price on this island.
Fabron had the woman over his shoulder, carrying her toward the rim of the cliff that jutted out over the sea. She was rolled into a section of carpet, like a mummy. I didn’t realize there was a person inside, at first. Didn’t know it was Norma until they passed me, almost to the cliff.
The only reason I happened to spot Fabron was because he and Wolfie weren’t where I’d expected to find them, so I’d gone searching. Toussaint’s chateau was the logical second stop. Fabron wanted to see the Maji Blanc in her robes, with torches burning. Wolfie was his eager mentor. So that’s the direction I headed.
I was almost to the cemetery when I noticed a figure in the distance. I had been walking fast, not jogging, sometimes turning full circles without stopping-alert. It was the only reason I saw Fabron before he saw me. Noticed a large shadow coming through the trees. The shadow became a man walking in the slow, staggering way men walk when they’re carrying something heavy.
I had knelt behind gravestones and waited. Saw that it was Fabron when he took out a flashlight and shined it around. I saw that he was carrying a roll of something-carpet, maybe-and knew there had to be a person inside because of the weight, and what else bends to conform to a man’s shoulder?
Had he killed Wolfie?
I thought about it as he came closer, headed for the cliff. No.. . Fabron was big, but Wolfie was bigger. There was no way the man could carry Wolfie’s corpse several hundred yards.
A corpse, that was my assumption. It was a thing-no movement, no cries of protest. But, as Fabron passed, the thing became a person again, dead or alive, because I recognized who it was. When he used the flashlight again, I saw a corded, butternut forearm, and the profile of a woman’s face and head flopping puppetlike on Fabron’s back.
Norma.
Maybe there was a hidden microphone in the massage room, but why kill her just for confiding in me, a guest? Or maybe it had to do with her job. She’d told me she was quitting soon. But then I reminded myself that Toussaint and her people didn’t need much of a reason. The night before, they’d killed Norma’s teenage nephew for pilfering orchids… or maybe he’d simply come to visit his aunt.
Evil is seldom original. Typically, evil’s color is gray. The common criminal is common. Most are the spawn of yawning stupidity and the intellectually stunted. But Madame Toussaint was not a common criminal. She inflicted pain for profit. She enjoyed humiliating her victims, and it was unsettling to imagine how Norma had died.
Fabron was a kindred sadist. I could hear him saying, If the woman’s got a decent body, why waste a chance at something like that? Toussaint would probably name him employee of the month.
Fabron was moving so slowly, I’d have no trouble intercepting him at the cliff. But where was Wolfie?
I was at the lookout waiting when Fabron came huffing and puffing into the clearing and dumped Norma’s body onto the ground. Despite the carpet shroud, her body made a flesh-and-bone thump when it hit.
Still no sign of Wolfie.
Fabron was big and lean, but he was cramping after carrying Norma’s body all that way. I watched him shrug and stretch, and roll his head-a massage therapist dealing with his own blockages-close enough that I could hear his breathing, and whispered profanities. I must have sounded like I was right beside him when I spoke. Raised my voice to ask, “Need a back rub, Fabio? Bad timing, killing Norma tonight.”
“Huh?” The man whirled around, then used the flashlight to scan the area. Nothing to see in this clearing but the stone cross, the bench, the safety railing… and a solitary tree angling from the precipice, over the sea. I hadn’t tried to disguise my voice, but the ocean updraft had a hollow resonance. Fabron couldn’t pinpoint the source.
“Enjoy the ceremony? Did the Maji Blanc’s skin really glow? Maybe she’ll pay you a visit. Leave you all scratched and bruised… like you left Senegal Firth.”
The Frenchman turned again. “Funny game, trying to scare me. I am laughing!” But he didn’t laugh. I watched him take three careful steps and use the flashlight to check behind the stone cross. Then he yelled, “Who are you?”
“Wolfie told you who I am. The La’Ja’bless, remember? I’m here.. . behind you.”
Fabron didn’t fall for it. He crouched low, searching with the flashlight, fine-tuning with his ears, but was maybe actually scared, so I called, “I sent Dirk to the hospital. Crushed his ribs. Maybe I’ll send you to hell. Why did you kill Norma?”
Fabron yelled, “I didn’t!” then took a deep breath, gathering himself as his head vectored slowly toward the solitary tree. He painted the canopy with his flashlight and began to creep toward the edge of the cliff, eyes fixed as he pulled something else from his pocket-a switchblade. He flipped the knife open, calling, "Where are you?”