“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.”
I had twenty-six more bricks of cash in my pack. Norma could never return to Saint Arc, and she would need money. Corey’s family deserved an extra cut, too.
Before zipping the bag closed, I opened the steel drawer and added the Midnight Star.
Expenses.
I asked the Englishman, “Do we use the tunnel, or is it safe to go through the house?” I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. We had to get to the beach house. We had to find Shay and Beryl.
Applying pressure to his bloody hand, Montbard said, “We’ll use the front door, of course. But try to ignore the mess.”
35
I was at the wheel of the van, accelerating, but backed off the pedal after only a couple of seconds. It was an older three-speed Dodge, gearshift on the column, brakes soft, shocks spongy, headlights misaligned. The road down the mountain was one lane, rock and gravel. Lots of switchbacks and unmarked curves on this black and cloudless night. Any faster, I’d overrun my headlights.
Norma was beside me. Montbard was on the bench seat behind us. He’d spent a couple of minutes on the little VHF radio, trying to raise the Saint Lucien marine patrol or a friendly vessel. But there was no reception because of the forest, so now he concentrated on stopping the bleeding. The bite was worse than he’d let on. The dog had ripped cordage away on the underside of his wrist and taken part of his ring finger. Gruesome to look at. The man remained stoic, though, even cheerful, but I knew he was in pain. He would need surgery.
I accelerated through a curve, then downshifted when I saw a security gate ahead-two men in uniforms visible inside the lighted guardhouse. I looked at Norma.
“Keep going, but not too fast. They don’t stop people leaving, just people coming in.”
I said, “You’re sure?” One of the men had stepped out of the gatehouse, hand on his pistol.
Behind me, Sir James coughed, then laughed. “Better late than never!” I didn’t understand what he meant until I looked in the side mirror and saw a dazzling snow cone of red brighten the night sky. It burst into a multicolored shower of light. A second later, a thunderous boom shook the van. A blue starburst followed, then a high, arching fountain of orange streamers.
“Fireworks,” Norma said, perplexed. “Why are they shooting off fireworks? I don’t think it’s a holiday.”
The guards must have been wondering the same thing. They barely glanced at me as I slowed and waved, using my hand to shield my face. Then I accelerated, eyes on the mirror, watching the two men stand childlike, faces turned upward at a rain-forest sky that boiled with color.