A Wild and Lonely Place (26 page)

“This is sheer fantasy,” Schechtmann said. “Why would I want a hold over my own business partner?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he knows too much about your organization, or your past. Maybe you’re afraid you’ve placed too much trust
in him, and you want it as insurance.”

Schechtmann tried to look amused, but his eyes were cold and wary. I’d struck a nerve.

Mr. Altagracia’s fingers tightened on my elbow. “Please excuse my young friend,” he said. “She has an extravagant imagination,
and her judgment is clouded at best. Some of the clouds may be dispelled by allowing her to see the child.”

Schechtmann smiled ironically, nodded, and turned military-fashion. I half expected him to goose-step from the room.

“Prussian, isn’t he?” Mr. Altagracia said.

Hamid had overcome his shock at my earlier pronouncement and now was looking thoughtful. He got up, took his snifter to a
wet bar, and poured a couple of fingers of Remy Martin. As he swirled and tasted it, his motions were measured and somewhat
theatrical. In his elegant robe he could have been an actor in a Noel Coward drama.

I wondered which of the many roles he’d played in his life was the real Dawud Hamid: indulged but closely leashed son; neglectful
husband; loving but absent father; international sophisticate. And then there was obsessed admirer. And killer.

Hamid seemed to sense what I was thinking. He glanced at me, eyes hooded, then turned to stare at the window wall facing the
sea. The lightning had stopped, and the wall was a black mirror. I watched his reflection. His eyes met mine in the glass,
then slid away.

Sounds in the entryway now: clipped adult footsteps and the barefoot patter of a child. I turned expectantly.

Habiba entered, Klaus Schechtmann’s hand firmly on her shoulder. She wore a yellow flowered nightgown, and her hair was tousled,
her eyes sleepy. On her left wrist was a Garfield-the-cat watch, and on her thin forearms were bruises that looked like finger
marks. When she saw me she stopped, her lips forming a little O.

Schechtmann nudged her forward. “Say hello to Miss McCone, Habiba.”

Her mouth formed my first name, savoring it as she had on that not-so-distant evening in my MG, but no sound came out. I went
to her, squatted down, and took hold of her hands. “How are you, Habiba?”

Her eyes flicked toward Schechtmann. “Fine.”

“Are you happy here?”

“…Yes.”

Mr. Altagracia moved between Schechtmann and us.

“Are you glad to be here with Uncle Klaus and your dad?”

Her brow puckered. She glanced toward her father now. He hadn’t acknowledged her presence, still stood with his back to us,
but he was observing everything in the window glass. I moved slightly, turning Habiba so he could only see her profile.

“I know you’ve missed your dad,” I said. “You told me, remember? You showed me the parrot bracelet he gave you, and then we
went for a ride, and Mr. Renshaw escorted the lady back to her castle.”

“I remember.”

Schechtmann pushed around Mr. Altagracia. “Miss McCone, please stick to the reason you came here.”

Habiba’s bony shoulders flinched.

“So can I tell your Grams that you like it here?” I asked her.

“…Yes, tell Grams I’m fine.”

“I’m so glad.”

She pulled her hands free of mine, threw her arms around my neck, and hugged me. Mr. Altagracia coughed loudly as she whispered,
“Help me!”

“Of course. You miss her. But maybe she’ll visit you soon.”

Schechtmann was moving toward us. I broke Habiba’s hold on my neck and pushed her back till she was looking directly into
my eyes.

And I winked.

She started to smile. Bit her lip.

I said, “You don’t know how worried we’ve all been—your Grams, Mr. Lateef, Mr. Renshaw, me. Do you know how I got here? I
swam from a boat to the beach where the tide pools are, just past the jetty. Have you seen those tide pools?”

“My new nanny showed them to me this morning.”

Thank God. Schechtmann was right behind her now, his hands reaching for her shoulders. “Well, I’m glad you saw them. I didn’t.
When I got here at four-thirty it was high tide and they were under water. I guess this morning at four-thirty they won’t
be.”

She bit her lip again. “I guess.” And then she yawned very realistically.

I let go of her hands. Stood and smiled down at her. “Well, now that I know you’re okay, I’ll go home and tell your Grams
that you want to stay here. Shall I do that?”

“Yes, please.”

“Tell me once again—are you really happy?”

“I’m really,
really
happy.” She raised her wrist and glanced at the Garfield watch. “Uncle Klaus, I’m sleepy. Can I go back to bed now?”

As they left the room hand in hand, Habiba looked over her shoulder and winked at me.

Zebediah Altagracia brought the Jeep to a stop and shut off its lights. We were perhaps half a mile from the entrance to the
compound on a sandy track that cut across open ground toward the sea.

“This is as far as I can go,” he said in a low voice. “The road turns into a footpath a few meters from here. Follow it until
you see a stand of mangroves, then go toward them. They’re on the shore above the tide pools.”

“I guess this is good-bye. I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“I should thank you. Your problem gave my daughter occasion to break her years-long silence.”

“She does care, you know. The reason she left was so she wouldn’t end up hating you for the way you live.”

“And I care, too, in my fashion. I was not a particularly good father, and probably never should have been one. Unfortunately,
few of us are able to resist the temptation to find out what manner of offspring we will create.” His smile was tinged with
melancholy. “Oh well, perhaps after tonight Regina will realize I’m not such a heartless old reprobate.”

“She already knows that.” Halfway out of the Jeep I paused. “When they find out Habiba’s gone, will Schechtmann and his people
give you trouble?”

“Oh, I hope so.”

“I’m serious.”

“Young woman, don’t worry about me! This old
schtveinhund
has learned many a new trick over the years.”

I believed he had.

* * *

The tall mangroves leaned outward from the edge of the sheltered cove, their high-arching aerial roots knitting land and sea
together in a chaotic tangle. I waited beneath them, watching the jetty and allowing the mosquitoes that bred there to feed
on me. The trees’ spindly trunks and overarching branches cast grotesque shadows as light began to show in the east; when
they shifted in the wind their sighs sounded like a dying woman’s last breath. It put a sharp edge on my tension, and I repeatedly
glanced at my watch. Four twenty-seven, and the minute hand didn’t seem to be moving.

Maybe the watch was broken. It was guaranteed to be waterproof, had stood me in good stead in the health club pool. But what
if its recent hard service had been too much? What if I was late? Maybe Habiba had come and gone. Or come and been apprehended
by Schechtmann’s guards. Maybe the game I’d been playing with her in the living room at the compound had been too obvious—

Stop it, McCone! This is no time to panic.

Eastern sky getting dangerously light now. How much longer before sunrise? Long enough for Habiba to get here and for us to
swim to the boat? What if—

Movement on the jetty. Habiba’s dark head appeared. She pulled herself up, slipped on the loose stones, took a tumble down
the other side. It must have hurt, but she made no sound. Just got up, brushed herself off, and kept coming.

Brave little thing, I thought as I kicked off the rubber thongs and stepped out of the mangroves’ shelter.

Habiba saw me and began to run. We met halfway, and she threw her arms around my thighs. “You really came for me,” she whispered.

I pulled her arms away, squatted down. “No time to talk, we’ve got to move fast. Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I stripped off the borrowed shirt and dropped it on the sand. Let the tide take it. Let Schechtmann’s guards find
it. I didn’t care.

Habiba stripped off her T-shirt and shorts. Underneath she wore a pink tank suit. “I knew we’d have to swim,” she said. “When
I told my dad I wanted to go home to Grams, he said there wasn’t any way off the island except to swim, and if I tried that
the sharks’d get me.”

And Zebediah Altagracia thought he’d been a bad father!

“Don’t worry about sharks,” I said. “They’re a lot farther out to sea than the boat that’s waiting for us.”

Habiba stiffened. “When Uncle Klaus took my mom and me on the boat back home—”

“I know, Habiba, but we can’t talk about that now. We can’t even think about it. All our energy has to go into swimming. You
ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” I took her hand and we waded into the water. The bottom was rocky, and I fought for balance. Twice Habiba
stumbled; once she almost pulled me down with her. When the water was thigh high I ducked down and floated; she followed my
lead.

I said, “I’m going to put you in a lifeguard’s hold. Do you know what that is?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll tow you. You help out by kicking. When we get on the other side of those rocks, we’re going to drift for a few minutes
till we see a light flash on the boat. Then we’ll paddle toward it as fast as we can. I won’t let go of you; we won’t be separated
at any time. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I got hold of her around the shoulders. She was very light and swimming to the other side of the rocks was easy. Of course,
if we had to move fast—

Follow your own advice. Put all your energy into the job at hand.

Beyond the rocks the current was stronger. I kicked hard to maintain position, reminded Habiba to do the same. The horizon
was distinguishable now, but I couldn’t make out the shape of the speedboat. I swept my eyes back and forth, watching for
Lloyd Fisher’s signal. Habiba was facing toward shore; I told her to keep an eye out for activity at the compound.

Minutes passed—more than I was comfortable with.

Maybe Lloyd had taken off and left us. Maybe Regina’s information about him had been wrong and I shouldn’t have trusted him.

In a scared little voice Habiba said, “Something’s happening.”

“What?”

“The lights just went on in my cottage.”

Dammit! Where was Lloyd?

“Somebody’s running out of there! I think it’s my nanny.”

Shit!

“She’s going up to the big house!”

I resisted the impulse to look around. Kept scanning the sea. Where was Lloyd?
Where?

A light flashed—a good distance away, but not an impossible one.

“Don’t panic, Habiba. We’re on our way. We’ll be at the boat before they start looking for you.”

I began towing her for all I was worth.

* * *

“Here, dry yourself off. You don’t want to catch a chill.” Lloyd tossed a towel to me, wrapped Habiba in another.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “They’ve already discovered Habiba’s missing.”

“By the time they figure out she’s not on the island we’ll be long gone.” He pulled an oar from behind the seats and handed
it to me. “Habiba, you’re gonna have to crouch down on the floor in front of the seat there, so you won’t get clipped on the
head. Sharon and I are gonna paddle the boat out a little farther. That way when the engine starts it won’t alert them.”

She shivered and slipped down while Lloyd got the second oar. Then we set to paddling. I’d thought my arms ached before, but
now every stroke grated. My head ached, too—a sharp throbbing in my sinus cavities. And my back—Jesus, was I turning into
an old woman? I’d be forty in September. Forty wasn’t old. Only the beginning of the prime of life, if you listened to Jane
Fonda.

Of course, in the fifteen years prior to
her
fortieth birthday, Jane hadn’t been stabbed, almost drowned, suffered numerous contusions and a couple of concussions, and
once been shot in the ass. What did she know, anyway?

I paddled stoically, too proud to grunt and moan as I wanted to.

After what seemed like an interminable time but was probably only five minutes, Lloyd said to stop. I handed him my oar, nearly
whacking him in the face with it, and he stowed both. “Put Habiba on your lap and belt youself in,” he told me. “We’re about
to motate.”

I pulled the little girl from where she crouched on the floor. She didn’t speak, didn’t seem able to help me, either. Anxiously
I looked at her face. She was pale, and her eyes were blank and glazed.

“You okay, kid?”

She nodded unconvincingly.

“Just hang in there. The bad part’s almost over.”

The speedboat’s engine boomed in the silence. I barely had time to secure the belt before we took off with a space-age thrust
that pushed us deep into the seat’s padding. We were motating, all right.

The bad part’s almost over,
I repeated to myself.

Some three hours later those words would make me a liar.

* * *

At shortly after nine the departures terminal at Princess Juliana was jammed. Long lines snaked toward the ticket counters
and overflowed onto the sidewalk. One glum group of teenagers sat on their bags in the middle of the floor, making everyone
detour around them. Many people looked rumpled and tired, as if they’d been up all night. In this crowd Habiba and I wouldn’t
stand out, in spite of our weariness and the cheap, ill-fitting T-shirt and shorts I’d bought for her from a sidewalk vendor
after Lloyd Fisher dropped us on the Philipsburg quay.

Gage Renshaw had told me I’d recognize the courier bringing Habiba’s passport by his RKI blazer. I spotted him quickly, leaning
against the wall by the entrance to the duty-free shops, the too-heavy garment slung over his shoulder, sweat beading his
forehead. Habiba and I threaded our way over there hand in hand, and I showed him my identification.

He examined it, nodded, and removed an envelope from the inside pocket of the blazer. As he handed it to me he said, “Looks
like you’ve given me a vacation on the company.”