A Wild and Lonely Place (22 page)

“You got it. He was in and out of headquarters within two hours.”

And early the next month he’d dropped out of sight. According to Mavis, the police hadn’t been called because it was too soon
after some event she then refused to discuss. She thought her mother-in-law had hired private detectives, but I now suspected
that was a fiction designed to keep Mavis from finding out that Malika had sent Dawud abroad to live. But why to Klaus Schechtmann,
whose influence had already weakened the once-strong hold she had on her son? Why not back to Azad?

I could think of one reason: the born-again Sheik Zayid bin Muhammad al-Hamid had reinstituted the death penalty for murder
and rape. The sheik had been rough on family members before and, as I understood it, Muslim law had worldwide jurisdiction.
Malika didn’t want to risk her son being tried for his crimes in an Azadi court—and possibly being stoned to death.

“Greg,” I asked, “why did they question Hamid?”

“He’d been bothering Love. Not exactly stalking her, but close enough that she went to her attorney two days before she died
to get a restraining order against him. The attorney told her nothing could be done because of his diplomatic status.”

“Did they ever solve the murder?”

“It’s an open file, and it always will be.”

“Because Hamid actually was the perp.”

“Right. There was enough physical evidence that he’d been in the apartment to bring charges, plus an eyewitness who saw him
leaving the building at the right time. The D. A. was considering charging him anyway, maybe making a landmark case of it,
but then Hamid disappeared.” Even from thousands of miles away I could feel Greg’s anger; it infected me, made me more determined
to get Habiba off that island.

“Greg, one more thing—I’m worried about Adah Joslyn. She left me a message on Monday saying she had a lead on the bomber and
I should call her, but she hasn’t been answering her phone and her machine’s off. Can you check on her?”

“Sure. Do you want me to call you back?”

“No, I’d better call you.”

“Wait—what’re you doing in the Caribbean? Does it have to do with—”

“Thanks, Greg.”

One more detail to take care of. I called RKI and was patched through to Renshaw at the consulate. “I can only talk for a
minute,” I said. “Did you get hold of Habiba’s passport?”

“Yes. The kid has dual citizenship—U.S. and Azadi. Schechtmann took the Azadi passport, didn’t want the American.”

Better for me that way; an Azadi child traveling with an unrelated American might attract attention. “How’d you persuade Hamid
to hand it over?”

“I didn’t. Kahlil Lateef snagged it from the consulate safe.”

“Good for him. Now—I need it tomorrow morning. Any problem with that?”

“I’ll send it by courier, one of our people. Where?”

“The airport, by nine. If I don’t show, he should hang around till I do.”

“You’ll recognize him by our blazer. Anything else?”

There was a soft rap at the door. Kenny, early. “Not now, but I’ll be in touch.” I told Kenny to wait a minute, then called
the airline and made reservations for Habiba and me on tomorrow morning’s flight to Miami.

* * *

Princes Quarter lay inland: a lushly green valley studded with cholla cactus, where trees and brambles that Kenny called thorn
forest grew in profusion. Small rock formations protruded among the vegetation, and free-ranging goats scrambled over or perched
atop them, regarding the taxi solemnly as we drove by. Rain-filled clouds lowered over the surrounding hills, threatening
to sweep down their slopes and dump their burdens on us.

Kenny was curiously subdued this afternoon; perhaps he’d realized I was not a normal tourist. He commented once or twice on
the scenery, called a goat that wouldn’t move out of the road a “fuckwit,” but otherwise we rode in silence.

After thirty-some minutes he reduced speed, pointing to two piles of stones that marked a dirt track. As he steered between
them he said, “This Miz Altagracia’s place.”

“She’s not married?”

“No mon in his right senses go near that dame. She jus’ sit out here with her goats, dry up like a dead crab on the beach.”

“Why?”

He looked puzzled, then shrugged. Clearly he wasn’t one to question root causes. People did what they did, and that was that.

We drove through more thorn forest and then a house came into view: whitewashed shingles, with a peaked red iron roof and
wooden louvers on the doors and windows. A second building stood next to it, joined by a latticed walkway overgrown by hanging
vines; its windows were covered by storm shutters for hurricane season. Brown, black, and white goats noshed on what little
greenery remained in front of the house; they scattered, bleating, when Kenny tooted the horn. As he brought the Toyota to
a stop, the louvers on the front door opened slightly. I felt, but couldn’t see, someone looking out.

Kenny asked, “How long you be?”

“I’m not sure. Can you wait?”

He shrugged. “I already miss the three o’clock plane from San Juan, so yeah, I guess.”

“If I’m more than fifteen minutes, I’ll pay ten dollars extra.”

That satisfied him. He switched on the radio, leaned back, and tilted his Dodgers cap over his eyes. As I walked toward the
house rhythmic, percussion-dominated music followed me.

Before I could knock, the door opened on well-oiled hinges. A tall, heavyset woman with tight gray curls above a high square
forehead regarded me, eyes squinting myopicaliy. “Yes?”

“Ms. Altagracia?”

She nodded.

I told her my name, showed identification. “I’d like to talk with you about your father.”

“That old fool? What’s he gone and done now?” Her speech had none of the local flavor; if anything, she sounded as if she
were from New Jersey.

“Well, you know he’s sold Jumbie Cay.”

She blinked. “I did
not!
”

“He has, and he may be in serious trouble.”

“You can depend on that—he’s in serious trouble with me. That island is all that’s left of my family’s heritage. How
could
he sell it!”

“It was a forced sale. May I come in?”

“Of course. I’ve forgotten my manners.” She opened the door all the way and let me into a room full of diffuse light. Its
floors were covered by grass-cloth mats, its walls by color photographs of what looked to be local landscapes. The furnishings
were simple rattan like Cam Connors’s.

Regina Altagracia motioned for me to be seated and lowered herself into a recliner chair, moving carefully as though she suffered
from back trouble or arthritis. She placed a hand on the yoke of her flowered shift dress and said, “What you just told me
tears at my heart. Jumbie Cay—gone.”

“You sound as though you love the island.”

“Yes, I do.” She nodded at the photographs on the walls. “I took those. Now they’re all I have left.”

“But you moved away from there.”

“No, Ms. McCone, I moved away from my father.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Many reasons, but you don’t want to hear them. Please tell me what happened. And where my father is now.”

“He’s still on the island; he was allowed to keep his home and some land. Are you aware that he has a gambling problem?”

“Yes. That’s one of the reasons I can’t live with him. I’m Seventh-day Adventist, converted when I was at college in New Jersey.”

“I thought I recognized a Jersey accent.”

She smiled, momentarily diverted from the sale of Jumbie Cay. “It always surprises people. I attended high school in Newark
and Fairleigh Dickinson University in Teaneck. My brothers and sister, too.”

“Why there?”

“My father’s brother married a woman from Newark. They were unable to have children, so they encouraged us to come live with
them and attend school. After graduating I stayed on and worked for an insurance company; my brothers and sister are still
in the States.”

“Why did you come home?”

Her smile became pained. “My mother died, and my father was getting out of hand. We all felt someone should look after him,
and the task fell to me. I was not married, my sister was. We women, you know, usually end up the caretakers.”

“But you didn’t remain with your father.”

“I couldn’t; he made my life intolerable. He drinks, he smokes, he gambles. There is always a card game going on on his veranda.
I’m a religious woman, but living in that situation taxed my faith. When I began to hate my own father, I knew it was time
to leave. Besides,” she added, her smile brittle now, “he didn’t really want or need me.”

I knew that feeling of offering and being dismissed. The previous Christmas I’d been concerned about Pa and his friend Nancy
spending the holiday in our old house, with its trapped memories. Since none of my other siblings was offering, I called Pa
and invited them to visit, much as I would have preferred spending the day with Hy and close friends. Pa’s response had been
abrupt and to the point: “Why would we want to do that? We’re off to Reno on the twenty-third.”

He didn’t even thank me for the invitation, and it hadn’t improved our relationship when I responded with sarcasm: “You’re
welcome, Pa.”

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I said to Regina Altagracia.

She shrugged, quickly covering her feelings. “In a way it was a relief. I had saved my money in the States, and I knew there
was a strong Adventist community here. I bought this farm, joined in, found a life. We’re a very close community—closed, I
realize now, since I didn’t even hear about Daddy…my father selling Jumbie Cay. Who bought it, and why was he forced to sell?”

“The purchaser is a man called Klaus Schechtmann.”

“Who is he?”

“A racketeer who ran a very lucrative phone-in sports book in San Francisco. He was indicted by the grand jury and left the
country. Now he’s running the same kind of operation from a compound on Goat Point.”

She closed her eyes, shook her head from side to side.

“Apparently your father was heavily in debt to Schechtmann. He took the island in lieu of payment.”

“The old fool.”

“I’m afraid the story only gets worse. Schechtmann is harboring an Azadi citizen named Dawud Hamid, who raped and murdered
a woman in California. He was never charged because he had diplomatic immunity. Two days ago Schechtmann removed Hamid’s wife
and child from the Azadi Consulate in San Francisco; the wife either died accidentally or was murdered, and Schechtmann fled
the scene with the little girl. By now he’s brought her to Jumbie Cay, and I’m here to get her back.”

Regina Altagracia’s fingers had tightened on the arms of her chair. “Is my father involved in this?”

“I honestly can’t say, although I doubt it. More likely he’s as much a victim of Schechtmann and Hamid as the little girl.”

“It’s difficult to imagine him as a victim. How do you plan to get the child back?”

“A seaplane is dropping me off near the island tonight. I’ll swim ashore. I have a contact there, a man called Nel Simpson,
who’ll help me and bring us back here in his boat.”

“I know of Simpson. How did you come across him?”

“Through a friend of your father named Zeff Lash—”

“No! Do not trust that man!”

“Why not?”

“Did he say he was a friend of my father?”

“Yes.”

“He is
not.
My father had him thrown off the island while I was still living there, for cheating at cards. Lash promised he’d get even
with him.”

But Lash had told me he visited often with Zebediah Altagracia, and demonstrated knowledge of Jumbie Cay since the time Schechtmann
took possession. If he hadn’t gone there to see the old man, then who? Nel Simpson? Or…?

An uneasy feeling made me ask, “Ms. Altagracia, do you know of a man named Cam Connors who operates an air-charter service
out of Princess Juliana?”

“Connors, Connors…Of course! He’s a friend of Zeff Lash, and also a gambler. I met him on Jumbie Cay a number of times—in
addition to coming to play cards, he also flew in supplies. It seems to me I heard something about him recently. What?”

I was silent as she thought, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

“Cam Connors…yes. He’s heavily in debt to illegal gambling interests, and in danger of losing his charter service.”

So Cam—who had claimed he’d never visited Jumbie Cay—used to play cards there. And now he was in over his head in gambling
debts. Even if Schechtmann were not one of his creditors, those who collect such debts often have cooperative arrangements.
Doing Schechtmann a favor would not hurt Connors. Doing him a disfavor would be sure to bring the vultures swooping down on
his business. Connors was setting me up.

Now I recalled things—little things, but significant all the same: the exchanges in French between Connors and Lash, the guarded
looks. Lash’s attempt to scare me off, my all-night argument with Cam. His latter insistence on accompanying me to the island
and, when I said no, his refusal to provide me with a gun to take along. He hated guns, he’d told me, didn’t own any and wouldn’t
arm anyone under any circumstances.

At the time I’d accepted what he said as truth because of my own reservations about firearms, but now I revised my opinion.
Hy had told me that Dan Kessell’s pilots always went armed—too much danger of cargo or planes being hijacked otherwise. Here
in the Caribbean, where drug trafficking and political instability were rampant, Connors would be a fool not to follow the
same practice. Habits born of living dangerously don’t die; Hy was the world’s most cautious person where firearms were concerned,
but I doubted the day would come when he didn’t sleep with his .44 within reach. Connors would do the same.

Cam may once have been Hy’s buddy, but the friendship was forged many years ago in different times. People change, and often
we forget that they don’t necessarily change for the better. If Hy had a dangerous flaw, it was believing in the continuing
good intentions of those he had cared about.

He should have been more cautious where Connors was concerned.