Remi’s voice had a tremor in it as she regarded Greg. “Was that it?”
“No. One more by the car, but he only has a machete. Might be long gone by now, with all the shooting,” Greg answered, struggling to his feet. She eyed the gash on his head and the dried blood in his hair and nodded. “They ambushed me.”
“Can you make it back?”
“Sure.”
She turned to Sam and Leonid. “Nice shooting.”
“I only have one bullet left,” Leonid complained.
“Hopefully, you won’t need to use it,” Sam said, rising unsteadily.
They moved to the entrance and pushed through the vines into a clearing. A dead islander lay sprawled a few feet from the opening. Greg knelt and retrieved the man’s gun—another revolver easily as old as he was—and then pointed to a trail. “We’re about five minutes south of the logging road.”
“Did you see a woman there?” Remi asked.
Greg nodded. “She’s gone. Left before the fireworks started.”
“Damn,” Sam said.
Remi glared at the trail. “Don’t worry. This isn’t over. She’s not going to get away with it.”
Sam studied her face and nodded grimly. “I believe you.”
CHAPTER 50
Carol Vanya looked up as her assistant entered her office. The heavyset woman’s face was ashen and her hands shook as she fidgeted. Vanya bit back her annoyance and sighed impatiently. The long day patching up islanders injured in the increasing looting was wearing at her nerves. “Yes, Maggie? I thought I left instructions that I wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“I know, Doctor. I’m sorry. But the police need to talk to you.”
Vanya put down her pen and gave Maggie a withering glare. “Can’t you deal with anything? What do I pay you for?” she snapped irritably.
The police had left a half dozen officers at the hospital to protect it in the latest round of civil unrest driven by the rebel instigators. The impoverished islanders were easy to manipulate into looting, the class anger like dry kindling for her agents’ sparks. The plan was working perfectly: the violence was increasing throughout the day, and by midnight she expected a vote of no confidence in Parliament for the current administration, creating the opportunity for a swift regime change.
“I think you need to see them,” Maggie repeated, obviously shaken.
Vanya stood up behind her desk and was rounding it when the imposing figure of Chief Fleming filled the doorway, his face impassive. Maggie stepped around him and scurried off as Vanya approached him, her professional smile firmly in place.
“Yes, Sebastian? Another emergency?” She was used to charming the chief of police, as she charmed most of the island males, with a combination of flirtation and flattery. She drew closer but stopped at the hardness of his stare. “What is it?”
“You’re under arrest. Turn around. You have the right to remain silent—” Fleming began, the disgust in his voice barely contained as he held up a pair of handcuffs.
“What? Have you gone mad, Sebastian? What is the meaning of this?”
“Turn around. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Her eyes widened and she clamped her mouth shut, her lips a thin line as she submitted to the indignity. She had no idea what had gone wrong, but she was confident she’d be able to talk her way out of whatever the confusion was. She was, after years of thankless public service, one of the most respected figures on the island, with many allies in the government.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Sebastian—”
“I’d keep my mouth closed, if I were you,” Fleming said as he locked the cuffs in place on her wrists and turned her to face the doorway. She gasped, and her vision swam, at the sight of four officers, glowering in the corridor, waiting to take her into custody—and Sam and Remi standing behind them. Her mouth worked like a beached fish, producing nothing but a choking sound, as realization dawned on her.
The two nearest officers pulled her roughly into the hallway. Sam and Remi watched wordlessly, Lazlo by their side. Vanya finally found her voice as she neared them, managing only a single word.
“You . . .”
“Name’s Lazlo. I don’t think we were formally introduced when you were telling your pet killers to murder us,” Lazlo said, his British clipping of each syllable joyous in its precision.
“What’s that old expression about he who laughs last?” Remi asked Sam as the doctor was dragged away.
“Something about laughs best,” Sam replied, watching Vanya’s humiliating final exit from the hospital she’d ruled with absolute authority for years.
Fleming shook his head as he approached. “I have to apologize again. I’m sorry I was so rude in our meeting . . .”
Remi shrugged and took Sam’s hand. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress. Apology accepted.”
Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dr. Berry, waiting in the doorway of one of the exam rooms, and turned his attention back to the police chief. “How’s the crowd control going?”
“Better. The Prime Minister was on the radio a few minutes ago, exposing the bones of Carol’s scheme, alerting the islanders that they had been duped. He didn’t name names, but distress calls from my men have already slowed. I’d expect that our forces will make short work of any remaining looters, once word spreads.”
“And the exhumation of the skeletons?”
“I have two forensic teams at the caves as we speak, but, because of the scope, it will be a while before they’re done and we can begin removing the bones and identifying the remains.” He shook his head in disbelief at the memory from earlier that afternoon when he’d arrived at the scene with two dozen of his top officers, led to the caves by Sam and Remi after they’d barged into his office and confronted him with their evidence. “What kind of a monster could do that . . . ? I still don’t understand any of it.”
“She’s not like you or me,” Remi said. “She’s a sociopath. No sense of right or wrong, only an instinct for manipulation, and a ruthlessness unlike anything you’ve probably ever seen before.”
“Or ever again, if you’re lucky,” Sam said softly. “She’s a serial killer, plain and simple. Perhaps with a more structured mechanism for her killing, but, make no mistake, that’s what you’re dealing with. Someone who has zero compunction or remorse about taking lives.”
“I’m partly to blame,” Fleming growled, and his voice caught. “She’s obviously been getting away with it for years on my watch. I’ll never forgive myself—I didn’t pursue the disappearances with nearly the vigor I should have . . .”
Dr. Berry glanced at his watch and signaled to them. It was busy at the hospital and he had an unending stream of patients continuing to arrive with every variety of trauma from the rioting. They left Fleming to his recriminations and approached Berry, who needed to finish stitching up Sam’s head now that the results of the CT scan were in.
“I wish I was seeing you again under more pleasant circumstances,” Berry said, and then his demeanor changed to all business. “As I suspected, you’ve suffered a minor concussion from the blows, but nothing you won’t recover from. You may experience dizziness and weakness over the next few days, but it should pass.” He eyed Sam disapprovingly. “I wish you’d consent to staying overnight for observation like your Russian friend.”
“How is he?”
“He also has a concussion, more severe than yours, but nothing terminal. And, as you know, many cuts and bruises. I’ve given him painkillers and antibiotics and he’s resting comfortably.”
“After complaining every step of the way, I’ll bet,” Lazlo said. “What about the girl?”
Berry scowled. “She’s in pretty bad shape, but I think she’ll make it. We’ve got to figure out what poison they were pumping into her and take measures to counteract it, but right now we’re focusing on keeping her hydrated.” He studied Sam’s head with a disapproving expression. “Sit down here and I’ll finish cleaning this gash up and stitch it closed. It’s clotted, but it will need sutures.”