A Wild and Lonely Place (27 page)

“Staying down for a few days?” I checked the passport and placed it with my own in the straw bag I’d also bought from the
vendor.

“I’m stuck here for however long it takes to settle it.” He motioned around the terminal.

“I don’t follow you.”

“They went ahead and struck.”

“What? Oh,
no
!” Vaguely I remembered reading in the San Francisco paper about a possible strike of American Airlines flight attendants,
but that had been last week when I didn’t know I’d be flying anywhere, so I hadn’t paid much attention. “How’d you get here?”

“Continental. But the firm booked me an open return, since they didn’t know when you’d show, and now all the seats’re filled
with people from the flights American canceled yesterday.” He shrugged philosophically. “Guess I’ll check into a hotel and
find the nearest casino.”

I turned and looked at the American counter. The line was still out the door, but I’d reserved first-class seats; there was
a shorter line at that window. I started to speak to the courier and found he’d disappeared into the crowd.

Dammit! I could have used his help. Of course, he wasn’t aware of the seriousness of our situation; RKI shared information
with its employees on a need-to-know basis. I glanced down at Habiba. She was watching me, solemn and a little scared. I took
her hand again. “Don’t worry. We’ll go talk to the ticket agent.”

The agent wasn’t optimistic. “The aircraft is here,” he said in the soft cadence of the islands, “and we are trying to put
together a crew. If we can do that, your flight will leave on time. If not, we will put you up at one of the nearby hotels—at
our expense, of course.”

I gripped the counter, fighting panic. By now Schechtmann and his people had figured out that I’d removed Habiba from Jumbie
Cay; how long before they also figured out my probable course of action? How long before they searched the airport, canvassed
the hotels?

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

No point in taking it out on the agent; he looked as haggard as I felt. “I’m okay. When will you know if the flight’s going?”

“Check with me in an hour.” He glanced at our passports, issued tickets and boarding passes. I tried to take that as a positive
sign.

Habiba grabbed my hand again and walked beside me, head bowed, as we went to a second window to pay our departure taxes. This
was the point I’d been concerned about: would they examine her passport and see she’d never entered? But a person who is leaving
legally from an airport is presumed to have arrived the same way; the woman in the booth took my money, stamped the passports,
and returned them with receipts tucked inside.

Habiba was clutching at my trousers. I looked down and saw she was still staring at the floor. “Hey,” I said, squatting in
front of her, “are you feeling okay?”

She shrugged.

“You know what? We need to eat something. That’ll make us both feel better.”

She didn’t look too convinced, but she nodded.

I took her hand again and steered her toward a stairway leading to the restaurant. It too was jammed, but we found a corner
table and ordered cheeseburgers. The room was hot and muggy; ceiling fans gave little relief. All around us people talked
in loud voices; some actually seemed to be enjoying the situation and others, who had probably been here all night, were on
their way to becoming obnoxiously drunk. Through the windows overlooking the field I could see our plane—a 727 around which
there was a suspicious lack of activity.

Habiba remained silent, but she ate her burger and fries with concentration, then asked for a chocolate sundae. I forced myself
to eat and drank three cups of coffee, but I kept blanking out, my eyes focusing on the black-and-white floor tiles. The what-ifs
echoing in my mind threatened to drown out the din around us. When Habiba finished the sundae, I tucked some bills under the
edge of my plate and said, “Let’s go see if they know anything more about when our flight’s leaving.”

She nodded and got up, slipping her hand into mine as we left the table.

Downstairs the terminal was even more crowded, and tempers were fraying. A man in a business suit began to berate the teenagers
for blocking the center of the floor; a woman in a sequined T-shirt was screaming at a ticket agent. I started toward the
first-class window, but Habiba hung back, tugging on my hand. I glanced at her, saw her eyes were filled with panic.

“What? Who do you see?”

“One of the guards from Uncle Klaus’s. Over there by the shops talking to a man with a broom.”

Surreptitiously I looked that way. A tall man in a khaki shirt and shorts was in conversation with a janitor. He held out
his hand at Habiba’s height, then moved it to mine. Describing us. The janitor frowned, then nodded and motioned at the stairs
to the restaurant. The man in khaki handed him a tip and pushed through the crowd.

“We’re out of here.” I started toward the automatic doors. For a moment Habiba froze, holding me back, then she trotted along.
Taxis lined the curb; I headed for the nearest one, but turned when I spotted a familiar face beneath a Dodgers cap.

“Kenny! Remember me?”

He squinted. “…You the lady I took to Miz Altagracia’s.” His expression wasn’t particularly warm; I supposed he feared that
I was about to foist more religious tracts on him.

“Can you take us there now? Double the fare, since there’re two of us?”

“You betcha, get in.”

As Kenny closed the backseat door behind us, Habiba moaned. “There’s Uncle Klaus in that taxi! He sees us!”

I looked where she pointed. It was Schechtmann, all right, staring at us from a green Datsun. Kenny got in and I leaned forward.
“You see that green car that’s backing out? He’s going to follow us. Can you lose him?”

Kenny glanced at the Datsun and laughed. “Does a dog got fleas? That Slow Eddie Frazier. Hold on!”

He reversed the Toyota and kept backing, clear through the driveway marked In Only. Made a sweeping turn in front of an oncoming
limo. Jammed the car into first gear and gunned it through a narrow alley between a convenience store and a gas station, cackling
maniacally all the while.

I looked at Habiba. Her eyes were livelier than I’d seen them, and her lips were parted.

Kenny sped between two rows of buildings. Made a screeching left into a side street. I peered through the rear window and
saw no sign of the green taxi.

“Slow Eddie, he still tryin’ to get outa the airport,” Kenny assured me.

Next we were cruising at a stately speed up the driveway of a gaudy pink hotel. The palm trees sported Christmas wreaths in
spite of it being May, and electrified reindeer sculptures cavorted on the lawn. Kenny saluted the doorman, who looked like
one of Santa’s elves, and we turned down a service road. When we emerged from the hotel grounds we were a block from the main
highway.

“Hunky-dory, huh?” our driver asked.

“Uh-
huh
!” Habiba exclaimed—and actually smiled.

Goats scattered and ran as Kenny wheeled the taxi into Regina Altagracia’s yard. The front door of the small whitewashed house
opened almost immediately, and the tall woman stepped out, shading her eyes with her hand. After having met her father, I
could see her resemblance to him: they had the same long bones, straight nose, and strong jaw. The same steely will, too.
She came over as Kenny stopped the car and peered in at us.

Kenny asked, “You want me to wait?”

Before I could say no, Regina told him, “Yes. I’ll bring you some fresh-squeezed lemonade.”

The driver gave her a look that said lemonade was not his drink of choice and why didn’t she offer him a beer, then leaned
back resignedly and reached for the radio’s knob. Habiba and I got out and followed Regina inside.

“So this is the young lady you came all this way for,” she said, leaning down and tipping Habiba’s chin up so she could study
her face. “I’m
very
glad to see you.”

Habiba looked wary and remained silent.

I said, “I think Habiba’s tired. We’ve had…quite an adventure.”

“I see. Would you like to lie down, young lady?”

“Yes, please.”

“Then come with me. I’ll put you in my bedroom, where we’ll be able to hear you if you need anything.” She took the little
girl’s hand and led her from the room. Habiba looked anxiously over her shoulder at me. I smiled reassuringly and sank into
a chair.

It seemed a decade since I’d last been in this room—that much had happened in the past eighteen hours. Eighteen rough hours
with no sleep, little food, and too much grueling activity. And now…I leaned forward, my face in my hands, unable to imagine
what still lay before us.

Regina called, “I’ll take your driver his lemonade, and then we’ll talk.”

“I don’t think he needs to wait. We’re likely to be here for a while.”

“Yes, I heard about the strike. But you don’t want him leaving here; he knows where you are and he can be bought.”

“…Right.” Weariness was making me stupid.

Regina passed through the room with a big plastic tumbler, returned, and went into the kitchen again. When she came back she
was carrying a bottle of brandy and a glass. I stared at it.

“Yes, we Seventh-day Adventists don’t approve of liquor, but this is not for recreational purposes.” She poured with the expertise
of a seasoned bartender. “Medicine. Drink up.”

She was her father’s daughter—pragmatic as they come. I drank and felt an insidious warmth creep through my body.

Regina settled into her recliner, putting up its footrest. “My father called an hour ago and told me that you’d gotten safely
off Jumbie Cay. Lloyd Fisher phoned him when he returned to Anguilla.”

“Is your father all right?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“They discovered Habiba was gone while we were still in the water off Goat Point. I assumed Schechtmann would give him a hard
time.”

Regina smiled in the same wicked way as her father. “He tried, but Daddy drove him off. He loaded his cannon as soon as he
got home, and when Schechtmann arrived, he threatened to open fire.”

“My God.”

She nodded, laughing softly. “When I lived with him, his craziness drove me wild. Now I can appreciate it.”

I sensed a reconciliation brewing in the Altagracia family, but decided not to comment lest I derail it. Stubborn people like
Zebediah and his daughter—and me—hated for others to realize that they were backing down from even the most unreasonable of
positions.

Regina’s smile faded. “Now tell me what’s wrong. Something worse than a canceled flight has happened; the child is terrified,
and you look unnerved, too.”

I explained about Schechtmann and his people appearing at the airport. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to take a commercial
flight out of here with them looking for us.”

She pursed her lips. “What about a charter?”

“By now I’m sure the story of what happened to Cam Connors has gotten out among the air-charter operators. I doubt anyone
will be terribly receptive to flying me anyplace.”

“You’re right. But there’s Lloyd Fisher; he could—”

“Can’t risk it. Schechtmann might have a helicopter or a seaplane at his disposal; they could drop on the speedboat.”

“Mmm.”

We fell silent. I finished the brandy, felt lethargy steal over me. I could sleep for a week. I could say the hell with it
and just hole up in the building where Regina sheltered her refugees—

And how long would it take Klaus Schechtmann to make the connection between Zebediah’s “bible-thumping daughter” and me? I
couldn’t do that to Regina—or to Habiba and myself.

I sat up straighter, shook my head when Regina motioned at the brandy bottle. I had to think; we had to make our move quickly.

“Sharon,” she said suddenly, “what about that boyfriend of yours?”

“Hy? What about—” Of course! Hy was in Santo Domingo. I had a contact number for him there. Hy, who was so talented at getting
people out of tight situations. I rummaged through the straw bag and came up with the paper on which I’d scrawled the number.
Regina motioned to the phone, and I went over there and dialed.

Hy wasn’t there.

He’d left for the airport two hours ago, the man who answered told me. I asked for the number, called it, and requested they
page him.

And waited.

“Still paging.”

Please be there.

“Still paging.”

Please!

“I’m sorry, your party doesn’t—Here you are, ma’am.”

“Ripinsky?”

“McCone?”

“Thank God! Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Renshaw said you were sick.”

“I was, but I got some pills for it, and so far they’re working. Where are you?”

“On St. Maarten, and I need your help.” Briefly I filled him in on what had happened since I left San Francisco. When I got
to the part about Cam Connors, his rage was apparent in the single syllable he uttered. I went on, “As if that wasn’t enough,
then there was the difficulty of getting her off the island, and now I can’t get us off
this
island. And sooner or later Schechtmann’s bound to figure out where we are. Probably sooner.”

“Damned inconvenient time for a strike, but I suppose some good came of it; you caught me here because
my
flight was canceled.”

“So you can’t get off
that
island.” I laughed and heard a hysterical edge to my voice.

“Of course I can get off the island. Tell me this: is there a small airfield somewhere near you?”

I turned to Regina. “He wants to know if there’s a small airfield nearby.”

“Esperance, over at Grand Case. But your Mr. Schechtmann will have thought of that.”

“Did you hear?” I asked Hy.

“Yes. Ask her about an airstrip—anything where I can land a small plane.”

“An airstrip, Regina? Anything?”

She thought. “A man I know—not exactly a friend, but someone whom I trust—lives on a defunct sugar plantation, also near Grand
Case. The former owner was a pilot and put in an airstrip; perhaps it’s still usable.”