For a long few seconds no sound came. He was alone in the shower-tub with only his labored breath. The chair scraped against the tile floor again, sending shivers of ice over his skin, cooling the sweat on the back of his palms. Rampersad was getting up.
He heard the footsteps as they left the kitchen. They were getting closer. The squeaking hinge told him that Rampersad was in the den. He leaned back against the tile wall, willing his heart to quiet as the bathroom door opened. He closed his eyes, and survived by taking baby breaths, silent from even God’s ears. Every sound Rampersad made was magnified by the small room and his shooting imagination.
Rampersad belched and Earl silently shuddered, but stayed quiet. He heard the creak of tiny hinges as he opened the medicine cabinet. He heard him take out something, heard the rattle of pills in a glass jar, heard him pour them into a beefy hand, heard a sound like a drain being pulled on a tub full of dirty water as he gulped them down. He almost screamed when Rampersad closed the cabinet door.
Earl heard him leave the den, heard him leave the house and then he heard the car start. A close call, he thought, as he stepped out of the tub and left the bathroom. Back at the cabinet, he opened it again and lovingly took out the weapon, this time admiring the scope. It was a variable power piece of optics with a top magnification of thirty-five. He put the rifle to his shoulders, sighted through it, looking through the crosshairs, and whistled. A man, or woman, with steel nerves, and something to mount the weapon on, like a tripod or a window sill, would be a dead accurate shot at five hundred yards.
Ramsingh was a dead man, he just didn’t know it yet.
In an oak chest next to the gun rack, Earl found a leather rifle case for the weapon and the ammunition. He slapped a five round clip into the rifle, but didn’t chamber a round. Then he stuffed the weapon into the bag. “Mission accomplished,” he said. Then he remembered his friend out front and stopped at the refrigerator, where he liberated two pounds of hamburger. At the door he fed the grateful guard dog, then he whistled his way to the car.
He was still whistling when he pulled out into the traffic. He had the murder weapon.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dani eyed the crowd below and wiped the sweat from her forehead. The room was air-conditioned, but it didn’t matter, she sweat before a hit, she always had. She was ten stories up, but she felt like she was down there with them. She tried to imagine the panic that would ensue when the prime minister went down.
A little less than two hours to go and they were packed in almost as tight as they were at the calypso fest. Already people were pushing and shoving, trying to get as close to the stage as possible. Everybody loved the cricketeer. It had to gall Ramsingh. To get an audience to listen to him he had to have George Chandee on the podium with him. Had to let him speak second if he wanted the crowd to stay through his own speech. Ah, Ram, Dani thought, turning away from the window, life isn’t fair.
But that’s what makes it so interesting. Who would have ever thought that she’d fall for a backwoods southern sheriff? Well, maybe not backwoods, but definitely not the type of man who was going to be invited into the Washington social scene. She’d miss the parties, the gowns, the gossip, walking with power, being in on the cutting edge of crisis, but she’d missed it for the last year and survived.
She dry fired the rifle, pulling the bolt back and shoving it home again, and squeezing the trigger. It was a heavy weapon, heavier than she preferred, but she’d make it dance in her hands in a very short time. Ram would die, George would have his country, and the Salizars would have no more problems laundering their money.
She moved her gaze back to the throng beneath her. The sun peeking through a moist, partially cloud covered sky painted the crowd below with a friendly brush. From her perch the people looked freshly scrubbed in the tropical afternoon. The lively and bright Caribbean colors-vibrant reds, bright greens, crystal yellows and razor sharp blues-worn by the average man and woman mingled with the dull grays of the light weight suits worn by the office workers, lawyers and politicians, to give the crowd both a sober and a festive look.
She was shaken from her reverie by a light knock on the door, three rapid taps, two slow, Earl’s signal. She lay the rifle down and shut the blinds, shutting off the outside. The blinds were efficient. A little light squinted in from the sides, but none squeezed through. She’d always liked the dark, felt at home in it. She’d always been an observer and the dark of night helped her to merge into the background while she watched.
She raised herself from the chair and went to the door. She tapped lightly, one time, Earl tapped back twice and she opened it.
“ Rampersad’s on the roof. Alone,” Earl said.
“ Arrogant. He should have some officers with him.”
“ Dumber than dog shit.”
“ He thinks he’s a prince and he doesn’t want to share his princely perch,” she said.
“ Lucky for us.”
“ Unlucky for him.”
“ The name on the door, ‘Martel’s Magic,’ what’s that?” Earl asked.
“ Michael Martel the Magic Man. He manufactures magic tricks here in Trinidad. He exports all over the world. He also smuggles cocaine and launders money for the Salizar drug cartel,” she said.
“ How do you know that?” he asked.
“ Trinidad’s a small place, not many secrets.”
“ What about the cops?”
“ George owns the cops.”
“ Yeah, I forgot,” Earl said. She watched him as he digested what she’d said. She liked it when he put his mind to work. She could almost smell the electrical impulses snapping in his brain as he worked it over. Then he smiled and she knew he got it. “You’re sending a message to George Chandee. You’re saying, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’ I like it, but what about Martel?”
“ About now he’s listening to my father tell him why he can’t ship his tricks to the States duty free. Dad will keep him tied up for about another hour, then he’ll give in sometime after Martel agrees to contribute substantially to the president’s next campaign.”
“ How do you know they won’t finish early?”
“ If they do, they’ll celebrate over drinks till dinner. I’m supposed to be the hostess, we’re having Peking duck. The Magic Man likes Chinese.”
“ So the prime minister gets killed by the police chief, shooting from Martel’s window. Your friend George is gonna be one pissed off motherfucker.”
“ The money laundering operation will come to a standstill. It’ll only be a temporary setback but it’ll remind them that the Scorpion has a lethal stinger.”
“ An hour-and-a-half to go,” Earl said, looking at his watch. “I’m gonna go and grab myself a quick snack. You want me to bring you back something?”
“ No, I’m fine,” she said.
“ Okay, I’m outta here,” Earl said, and she went back to the Magic Man’s desk and sat in his plush swivel chair, resuming her vigil at the window, as Earl went out the door.
“ Are you okay?” Broxton asked.
“ I think so,” Maria said, gasping for breath. “Just got the wind knock out of me. Can you see the glass?” They were lying on their sides, his back against the bed.
“ Arm hurts, can you ease off it?” he said. Both their arms, his right and her left, were under her side. She arched her body and moved so that their arms were lying between them. He bit into his lower lip, against the pain. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said.
“ Sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to get to the glass. I wasn’t thinking.”
“ It’s okay, I see it. I’m going to have to roll on top of you.”
“ Go,” she said, and when she was on her back he reached out and picked up the glass. He raised their hands and cracked the glass against the edge of the nightstand just like he’d crack an egg against a frying pan