A Wild and Lonely Place (23 page)

I
should have been more cautious.

My fists were clenched, and my fingernails dug into my palms. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood.

Regina Altagracia frowned. “Are you all right?”

What would Connors do? Force me out of his plane over the open sea? Probably not; I’d put up a struggle, and he wouldn’t want
to risk the aircraft or his life. He might land at some location other than Jumbie Cay and drown me. Tourists drowned all
the time; my death probably wouldn’t trigger a serious investigation.

Still, Cam didn’t strike me as the sort of man who would kill with impunity; certainly he’d tried every way possible to talk
me out of making the trip to Jumbie Cay. For all he knew, I’d called Hy and told him our plans. We’d been seen together both
at his friend Ben’s restaurant and Eudoxie’s last night; we’d be seen together at his charter service tonight. No, rather
than kill me, Cam would let matters take their natural course. He’d drop me at Marlin Landing as promised.

And then? Easy. Nel Simpson would deliver me into the hands of Schechtmann and his people, and I’d end up in an unmarked grave
on Jumbie Cay.

The images of what might happen before they killed me swarmed before my eyes like insects.

Through them I saw Regina Altagracia watching me. Awkwardly she got up from the chair and came over, put her hand on the back
of my head and forced it forward. “Breathe shallowly,” she said. “You’re about to hyperventilate.”

“I have to think—” The swarm became small black dots. Jesus, this hadn’t happened to me in years! I thought I’d gotten over
it—

Next thing I knew my knees were pressing against my temples. A hand restrained me from raising my head.

“It’s all right,” Regina Altagracia’s voice said. “Relax and keep breathing shallowly.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” I said to the grass-cloth mat on the floor.

“You’ve had a shock. It happens.”

I relaxed and breathed.

After a moment she took her hand away and I sat up. “Thanks,” I said.

She leaned down, tilted my face toward hers, and studied me with coolly assessing eyes. Then she nodded and smiled grimly.
“I will help you,” she said.

I couldn’t imagine how.

Her smile broadened, became wicked—and dangerous.

She said, “You probably see me as a good church lady. On the upper fringe of middle age, dowdy and overweight, with an undistinguished
past and a future that is a gentle slide toward death.”

I shook my head, confused as to where this was taking us.

“I am most of those things,” she went on, “and something else entirely. And I will tell you this: anyone who tries to— pardon
me—fuck with my island, my father, a helpless little girl, or a good person such as yourself…Well, anyone who tries that is
in for one hell of a fight.”

Regina told me to go outside and pay off Kenny. She didn’t know the driver and didn’t trust anyone unfamiliar to her and her
associates—whoever they might be. “Here,” she said as I started toward the door, “give him some of these. He’ll clear out
in a hurry.”

I looked at the pamphlets she thrust into my hand. Seventh-day Adventist literature. When I came back I was smiling; Kenny
had fended off the pamphlets as if they were capable of transmitting an infectious disease.

Regina smiled knowingly. “It hurts me that so many people are unwilling to see the light, but on the other hand, their horror
of the Lord’s word can be useful. Now, come with me.”

She took me through the latticed walkway to the shuttered building at the side of the house. Its door was secured by a padlock
and chain. She keyed the lock, unwound the chain, and entered ahead of me. The interior was totally black; I waited.

An oil lamp came on, its beam weak at first, then stronger. I stepped through the door and saw a large room that had once
been a barn. It was spotlessly clean and the stalls were partitioned off with bedsheets; in one I glimpsed a neatly made cot.
At the far end of the room was a cooking and eating area; at the other stood a grouping of shabby mismatched chairs. A toy
box with a teddy bear perched atop it and a bookcase crammed with paperbacks sat beneath one of the shuttered windows.

“What…?” I asked.

Regina switched on a ceiling fan against the trapped heat, lowered herself slowly into a chair, and motioned for me to sit,
too. “I will tell you a story,” she said. “When I first moved to this peaceful valley I began attending services at the little
stone church two miles down the road. For a while I made no friends; I was out of practice. Then one day in the supermarket
I ran into a woman who had sat next to me during the previous week’s services. I was carrying a political history of the area;
she commented on it and after some conversation during which we discovered we shared the same views on a number of issues,
she suggested I might be interested in joining a study group at the church.

“Well, I told her I already knew my Bible backwards and forwards. She said the group wasn’t a bible-study class; instead they
discussed political situations in the Caribbean and South and Central America. That interested me, so I attended and got caught
up in it. Every Thursday evening we had spirited arguments about the oppression and change sweeping our corner of the world.

“After six months the same woman called on me and asked me to join the group’s inner circle. It seems the sessions I attended
were a proving ground, their way of checking out the strength of my beliefs and commitment. The inner circle did more than
talk; they assisted people in the troubled areas.”

“How?”

“You have of course heard of your country’s Underground Railroad?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this building is one of the way stations on ours.”

“You actually help them escape the trouble spots?”

She shook her head. “We’re not equipped to do that. To tell you the truth, most of us are too old and fat for that sort of
action. But we raise money for loans, we provide them shelter, we refer them to other associates in other places. We give
them moral and spiritual support. The word is out that people in need have friends on this island.”

“This is a remarkable coincidence,” I said. “The man I’m involved with does similar work; right now he’s helping a political
dissident escape from Haiti.” I told her Hy’s name and the organization in Miami that had contacted him.

Regina didn’t look surprised in the least. “I don’t know of your friend, but I do know the group he’s working for. And this
is no coincidence.”

“Oh?”

“As I said before, I’m a good church lady. I believe in divine guidance.” My skepticism must have shown on my face because
she asked, “What faith are you?”

“I was raised Catholic. Now I’m…nothing.”

“Don’t look so alarmed; I’m not about to begin proselytizing. But I very much doubt you’re ‘nothing.’”

“No?”

“If you were, you wouldn’t be here to save the little girl. You believe. You just don’t put a name to it.”

“…Maybe.”

“No maybe about it. Now, when are you flying to Jumbie Cay?”

“Around ten tonight.” I explained my reasoning about what Connors planned to do.

“I think you’re quite correct,” she said, “so we must insure that you’re adequately protected. You see that toy box over there?
Open it.”

I went over, removed the teddy bear, and lifted the box’s lid. Inside was a jumble of more stuffed animals. I frowned at Regina.

She tossed me a small key. “Take them out and use this to release the panel beneath them.”

I scooped out the playthings and tossed them on the floor, then unlocked and removed the panel. It concealed an impressive
cache of handguns.

“Before you leave here,” Regina said, “we will see that you’re equipped with the proper weapon in a waterproof, concealed
package. But let’s concern ourselves with that later. At the moment we have work to do.”

* * *

Regina dropped me off in Marigot at quarter after five. In my head I had a list of facts and instructions. Taped to the small
of my back and braced by the belt of my loose trousers was a waterproof package containing my money, I.D., and other essentials,
a lightweight Glock nine-millimeter pistol and a final necessary item. My yellow shirt billowed out, concealing the extra
bulk. Regina clasped my hands and wished me Godspeed, reminded me to contact her at her unlisted phone number should I need
help when I returned with Habiba.

That she said “when,” rather than “if,” bolstered my courage.

Connors wouldn’t get back from his charter for more than an hour. I turned down a side street, found a small sidewalk café,
and ordered coffee. As I sipped it I reviewed my plans. A few more details had to be taken care of; I’d find a pay phone before
going back to the apartment.

Even though I was a good actor, it wouldn’t be easy to fake the rapport I’d previously shared with Connors. I was sure I could
pull it off, though, and any slips I might make he’d chalk up to nervousness about tonight’s excursion. I wouldn’t have to
fake that.

The plan was solid; Regina and I had gone over and over it—each adding bits and pieces from her own area of expertise, improving
on it as we went. Details were crucially important, and I had them down pat. One would lead to another with smooth precision.

As I reviewed them I realized that my nervousness was fading. I felt in control, and somewhat high. Hell, any minute now I’d
be starting to enjoy this!

Was this the way the Diplo-bomber felt as he homed in on one of his targets? Yes, I thought so. The powerful rush might not
be the motive for the bombings, but it had to be a satisfying by-product. And the more he toyed with the authorities, the
more he walked on the thin edge of danger, the greater the rush would be.

I was beginning to understand him in a way that reading a dry psychological profile couldn’t duplicate. If I could get farther
inside his mentality, until I was almost in sync with it, I might be able to figure out what he wanted as his ultimate payoff.
There had to be one; he’d been escalating his activities, changing his patterns, revealing more of himself. He’d demand that
payoff soon. And if, when he did—

Whoa, McCone! Take things one step at a time. The program for tonight is to get Habiba off that island.

I finished my coffee. There was a pay phone on the corner; I left money on the table and walked down there.

Early afternoon in California. Greg Marcus was out of the office. Still no machine and no answer at Joslyn’s. Renshaw wasn’t
at Green Street, but the operator patched me through to the consulate.

“Goddamn time you called back!” he exclaimed. “What’s going on?”

“I’m about to snatch Habiba and bring her home.” I believed it now; it would happen. “What’s going on there?”

“Nothing. No ransom demand, and Hamid’s going about business as usual.”

“Jesus, Gage, Mavis is dead and Habiba’s down here. How can she remain calm? She knows what her son is—”

“What her son is?”

Bad slip; I couldn’t go into it now. “Well,” I said lamely, “he hasn’t been the best of fathers. Have you heard from Ripinsky?”

Hesitation. “Yes. He got his party out and sent him on to Panama, where he’s been granted asylum.”

“Where’s Hy now?”

“Santo Domingo. There were…complications.”

“Complications? Gage—what?”

“He’s sick, that’s all. That damned bug he picked up in Managua. But he’s seen a doctor and gotten some medication for it.
Don’t worry.”

How could I not worry? “Do you have a contact number for him?”

He read it off to me. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”

“Isn’t any. And listen, Gage, if Hy calls in, will you tell him not to contact Cam Connors under any circumstances?”

“Connors. What’s he got to do—”

“I’ve got to go, Gage.”

“Well, stay in touch.” He hesitated, then surprised me. “And, Sharon—take care of yourself.”

Mellowing in his middle years, I thought as I hung up. Or maybe he’s moved me to another one of those little mental compartments
Cam was talking about. Labeled what, I wonder?

I gripped the receiver, looking at the scrap of paper on which I’d scrawled the Santo Domingo number for Hy. I could feel
the pull; a simple call to the long-distance carrier and I’d hear his voice. Reassure myself that he’d be all right.

But I
couldn’t
do that.

I’d never been able to lie to him, never even been able to hide anything from him. If I called, he’d have the whole story
of Connors’s betrayal from me in minutes. It would enrage him and, in spite of his illness, he might fly here in time to disrupt
my plans. Besides, talking with him might bring me down, make me lonesome. I couldn’t indulge in bad feelings now. I had to
focus only on tonight and Habiba.

I’d let the promise of hearing Hy’s voice be the radar signal that would guide me back here with the little girl.

One last detail to take care of, but it was the most important of all. I called a number on the nearby island of Anguilla
and passed along some information that greatly interested my party. Then I braced myself and went back to Rue de la Liberté
to face Connors.

* * *

Connors insisted we go to dinner at a restaurant on the quay where the ferries left for Anguilla—a grim variant on feeding
the prisoner her last meal. The sunset was hidden from view by the point that formed the west end of the bay, but its glow
turned the underbellies of the clouds piled on the horizon to flame, their tops drifting away like smoke. I took a cue from
the sight and—in hope of shoring up what I feared was a badly sagging rapport—began to chatter about color photography. The
more I talked, the more morose Connors became, slouching in his chair and staring moodily at the darkening water.

An attack of conscience over what he planned for me, I supposed. Well, good. Let him have a foretaste of how miserable he
would feel before this night was over.

Our goat kebabs were being grilled on an oil drum on the rickety veranda. When they came I pushed them around on the plate;
the adrenaline high cut my appetite as surely as a line of cocaine. Connors didn’t notice and ate voraciously; he’d wrestled
with his conscience and won.