DOUBLE KNOT (24 page)

I mean every word of this, David.

No headlines here. Bianca fired me. Again. This time with a twist—she’d fired Bradley
too. She was furious at me for not being at her beck and call when
she
was the one who’d sent me on this prison cruise. And ultrasounds, of which I’m well
into the double digits on at twenty-four weeks, because watching twins grow is a big
job, I knew for a fact didn’t hurt a bit or blur anything. Bianca’s another story—good
grief, don’t get me going—and ultrasounds were just one procedure on a long list she
refused to participate in. Her prenatal team strongly advised her to have an amniocentesis
when she was sixteen weeks along. Because of her age. She wouldn’t even hear of it,
Mr. Sanders couldn’t even talk her into it, and three doctors were fired over it.
She’d had two face lifts, two breast augmentations, liposuction on her ankles, several
eyelash transplants, butt implants, practically injected her own face with Botox as
part of her morning beauty routine, but refused to have ultrasounds.

“What is
wrong
with her?” Fantasy asked.

“Not my problem anymore,” I said. “She fired me.”

“Why won’t she have an ultrasound?” she asked.

“You heard it.” I shook the V2. “It rattles her teeth. She had one early on, was sick
for two days, blamed it on the ultrasound, and has refused them since.”

The second email from Bianca hit my inbox Saturday night, just before midnight.

David
,

I need you back here immediately. Something has happened to your husband and Richard
was forced to LEAVE ME to replace him halfway across the world. I don’t know if your
husband has fallen ill or the plane crashed, and frankly, I don’t care. What I do
know and care about is the fact that I HAVE BEEN DESERTED. Both by you, and now because
of you, by MY OWN HUSBAND.

I will NOT be left alone at a time like this. It’s INHUMANE.

Pack my bags in a hurry. And don’t you dare pack haphazardly and damage my Louis luggage.
May I remind you that each of those pieces was COMMISSIONED, and in addition to my
wardrobe you are traveling with, you have my new luggage I HAVEN’T EVEN LAID EYES
ON? Do you understand, David? You are using my new luggage BEFORE I AM?

Now, David, I have unsettling news.
Brace yourself
. Unless there is notable progress very soon, I will be preparing myself to undergo
a Cesarean section to bring Ondine into this world.
SURGERY, David
.

In addition to the TRAUMA you have landed in my LAP impeding my very ability to DELIVER
MY DAUGHTER INTO THIS WORLD IN THE WAY GOD AND I INTENDED, according to Dr. Durrance,
my BLOOD PRESSURE has SKYROCKETED. As you can well imagine, I’m devastated and your
vacation is over. Be at the ship’s helicopter pad at seven Sunday morning to be transported
to the plane I’m sending. I need you here immediately, and be careful with my Louis.
Not a scratch on the trunks, David. Do you hear me? Not one scratch. I will see you
mid-morning Monday. –B

I’d missed the helicopter ride by a country mile.

Then I opened the third email sent two hours ago.

Well, David, I hope you’re happy. If Ondine or I don’t make it through this, our blood
will be on your hands. Be ready. Have my wardrobe, my photography, and my luggage
ready.

I dropped the V2 like it was on fire.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fantasy asked. “What’s she saying?”

“I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it means,” No Hair said.

“What do you think it means?” Fantasy asked him.

“She’s on her way,” he said. “She called a jet, she’s out of that bed, and she’s on
her way to pick up David.”

Fantasy turned to me. “David?”

“Surely not,” I said. “She wouldn’t
travel
. She hasn’t been out of her bedroom in six months!”

“Davis,” No Hair said, “Richard isn’t there to stop her. You aren’t there to stop
her.” He looked at his watch. “It’s less than an hour in a jet between here and there
and I bet you money she’s either on her way or already on this ship.”

“She can’t,” I said. “If she sets foot on
Probability
, DeLuna will think she’s
me
.”

We sat quietly, contemplating what Bianca would and wouldn’t do (the woman had no
boundaries whatsoever) when DeLuna caught on.

At some point, he had to catch on.

I’d say we reached that point.

I’d say fifty jackpots hitting sent him over the edge.

(She did it! Mother did it!)

I’d say he blamed 704.

He cut the power at eight minutes after four on Sunday afternoon—lights, air, appliances—everything
electrical ground to a lifeless stop. It was the loudest quiet any of us had ever
heard. The quiet was so profound it woke Jess. “SO? SO? SO?”

The good news was Mother’s pot roast. We hadn’t even thought about turning it off
and we’d have never remembered. The bad news was DeLuna’s V2 went down with the power,
leaving us with no contact whatsoever with the world outside of 704. The worst news
was Mother and Arlinda were on one side of 704 and we were on the other.

Where was Mother? Where was Arlinda? Where were Bradley and Baylor? The most immediate
where of them all—where was very pregnant Bianca Sanders? The most terrifying—where
was Max DeLuna?

TWENTY-FOUR

What now?

Since the minute I stepped aboard
Probability
, it’d been an ongoing question of what now.

Anderson Cooper, the air around her having changed, wandered out of my stateroom and
onto my lap. She opened her little mouth and let out a wail of protest at this newest
development. We clapped our hands over our ears as it echoed around the salon.

“Oh, dear God, Davis, your cat.”

“We have more to worry about than my cat, Fantasy.”

“She’s got something stuck on her fur.” No Hair pointed.

It was a chip of gray gauntlet paint. Which is when I remembered. “The tools!”

I tried to get up.

“The tools!” Fantasy shot off, No Hair on her heels, and Jess hauled me up.

“What happened in here?” No Hair looked around the dark dressing room. “Did someone
forget to tell me about the bomb?”

It was a little messy.

He dangled the bottom half of Arlinda’s Skipper uniform by a finger. “What have you
ladies been up to?”

I grabbed the bikini from him.

“What the hell happened to the wall?”

“About that.” I took a deep breath.

“Don’t.” He stopped me. “Tell me later. Or never tell me. Just find the tools.” He
took two steps forward, bent over, and raised up with something sinister. “What did
you think you were going to do with this, Davis?”

It was large, a little oily, and had a Frisbee-sized brown middle. “I’m not sure what
it is.”

“It’s a floor sander. And you see this?” He dangled a thick yellow cord with a three-prong
plug. “Even if we wanted to sand through a lead door, we have no
power
.”

“So, does anyone smell something? It smells like a Christmas tree. Or church. Or rainbows.”
She tipped her head back and sniffed. “So, it smells like rainbows on a Christmas
tree at church.”

“It’s pot roast, Jess,” I said.

“It smells so delicious.”

“Don’t look at it.” Fantasy was holding a nail gun.

“Why? Will it hurt my eyes?”

Maybe DeLuna had his wife locked in 704 because she owned the bank processing his
illegally obtained millions. Or maybe he wanted her out of his hair and in ours.

“Jess?” I asked.

Her head spun around. “So?”

“Who regulates banks?”

“The Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, the Federal Reserve System, and the Office
of the Comptroller of Currency.”

Fantasy’s jaw dropped.

I said, “The pot roast won’t hurt your eyes.”

“But don’t look at it,” No Hair said.

She scratched a rhinestone shoulder strap. “So.”

“Davis?” No Hair opened a box of something and pulled out a silver disk with sharp
teeth. “These are miter saw blades. I don’t see a miter saw.”

“No Hair.” I fell down on the ottoman. Something cold rolled to my thigh. “We were
exhausted. We were in a hurry. We just grabbed. Sorry if we grabbed the wrong tools.”

“Give me that.” He pointed. I passed him the something at my thigh. “Now this,” No
Hair said, “we can use.”

We were running through the salon to blaze through the front door of 704 with a blowtorch
when we saw it—dry land. No Hair came to a sudden halt, Fantasy ran into him, Jess
ran into her, Anderson Cooper and I landed on top. I could barely hear No Hair from
the bottom of the heap. He said, “You ladies get off of me. I’m going back to the
submarine.”

* * *

Probability
slowed as we approached the Cayman Islands.

“What is that?” Fantasy asked.

“It’s West Bay. The tip of Grand Cayman.” We were miles from shore. “We won’t go much
farther.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“The ship will drop anchor soon, Jess,” I said.

It was almost five o’clock and
Probability
was arriving in the Caymans as scheduled. Cool trade winds blew across the deck,
the late afternoon sun hit me with warmth and promise, and I could see tourmaline
water lapping sugar sand beaches at the shore. The sky was stellar, a color that went
so far past blue Crayola didn’t even know the name of it, and I felt a trickle of
calm at the sight of dry land. Consular agencies. Telephones. Dishwashers. Telephones!
Mother’s portable phone! I’d forgotten all about it!

The doorbell rang and I forgot about it all over again.

We didn’t know 704 had a doorbell.

There was electricity on the other side of the door.

It rang four more times before we made our way inside, through the salon, and into
the foyer that led to the door. I was first in line. “Mother!” I rattled the knob
and beat on the door with my fists. “Mother!”

“She can’t hear you.” No Hair brought up the rear, having stopped to retrieve the
blowtorch.

“How do we know it’s your mother?” Fantasy asked. “It could be anyone. It could be
DeLuna.”

“So. No.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Give me the gun.” No Hair held out a hand. Fantasy pulled the Hi-Point 9mm from her
hip and passed it to him. He popped out the magazine, checked it, slammed it back
in, clicked off the safety, tucked it, then said, “Stand back.”

We shuffled in reverse.

“This is a tabletop blowtorch.” Show and Tell. “It runs on butane or propane and I
don’t know how much juice it has. For all we know, it’s empty.”

The doorbell rang again.

“The door is strongest along the perimeter.” He said it more to himself than us as
he knocked all over the door with his knuckles. “I think getting through the doorknob
and keypad is out of the question.”

“Burn a smaller door,” Fantasy said. “Just…” She traced a frame through the air with
her hands. “You know. A smaller door. Like a doggie door.”

“That’s not a good idea,” I said. “If we burn an opening large enough for us to get
out it will be large enough for someone else to get in.”

Think, think, think, Davis.

I turned to Jess. “Can you get into a bank vault with a blowtorch?”

“No.” She tapped her chin. “You’d need a thermal lance. Just know it will reduce anything
in the vault to ash. You’ll get in, but you’ll lose everything: currency, stock certificates,
deeds.”

Fantasy’s jaw dropped. Again.

“How would you break into a vault if you only had a blowtorch?” I asked Jess.

“You’d burn a small circle halfway through, then knock it out.”

“So you could reach in?” I asked.

“Yes,” Jess said.

“I’m not even believing this,” Fantasy mumbled.

“So, what?” Jess asked her.

No Hair was already burning a circle in the middle of the door.

“I need a mirror and something to knock this out with.”

Fantasy took off and was right back with her Ming Dynasty antennas and a Bobbi Brown
brightening brick in Coral.

“What the hell is this?” No Hair looked at the black square in his hand.

The doorbell rang.

She dropped what used to be a priceless piece of art to the floor and opened the compact
for No Hair, the mirror catching the lone ray of sun streaming in from the salon,
then bouncing off a crystal in the foyer chandelier and sending a starburst to the
ceiling.

“So, wow.” Jess’s head tipped back.

“What the hell is
that
?” No Hair asked.

“Something to knock a hole in the door with.” Fantasy picked up her antennas. “Move,”
she said.

“Wait!” No Hair motioned Jess and me against the wall.

Fantasy aimed her Ming Dynasty art in the center of the circle, then put all her weight
behind it and knocked a saucer-sized hole in the door. No Hair pushed her out of the
way and immediately filled the hole with the business end of a semi-automatic pistol.

“Whoa! Whoa!” The voice on the other side of the door was a man’s. “Don’t shoot! I’m
here about a pot roast! Don’t shoot!”

“Who are you?” No Hair asked, trying to angle the mirror with his free hand so he
could see for himself.

“It’s Fredrick Blackwell, No Hair!” It had to be. I jumped to the other side of the
hole in the door. “Mr. Blackwell.” I stayed away from the hole. Just in case. “Where’s
my husband?”

“Is your husband on the Gulfstream?”

“Yes!” I had my hands on the babies waiting for news about their father. “Yes!”

“He’s on the way,” Blackwell said. “A little under two hours out.”

“Where’s he landing?”

“George Town Municipal.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No, the onboard communication system has been disabled.”

Which meant we still didn’t know what was going on inside the Gulfstream. Nor did
we know exactly who was or wasn’t on
Bellissimo One
.

“Where’s my mother?”

“Mrs. Way?”

“Yes!” I inched closer to the peephole.

“I’m not sure,” Fredrick Blackwell said. “There was an enormous amount of activity
in the casino, and last time I saw her she was in the middle of it.”

“With Arlinda?” I asked.

“Arlinda is with my wife in our suite. She couldn’t get in this room.”

No. No, no, no. How did Mother and Arlinda get separated?

“How long has it been since you saw my mother?” I stuck my face in the peephole, and
got my first look at Fredrick Blackwell. Who also got his first look at me. And it
was a look I knew all too well.

“Oh, holy crap,” I said through the big peephole. “You’ve seen me.”

He took a step back, nodding.

“And I’m pregnant?”

“Very,” Fredrick Blackwell said.

“Oh, shit.” (Fantasy.)

“SO?”

“Bianca Sanders is here, Jess. On the ship.”

Fantasy didn’t have to explain it to Jess, but she did have to catch her on her way
down.

* * *

We interrogated the poor man. Or maybe that was just me. In the end, I asked for one
more favor: turn on our electricity.

He looked at his watch. He glanced up and down the passageway. He was on his way to
the Jing Ping ferry boats to meet two Federal Aviation Administration supervisors
from Fort Worth, Texas, at George Town Municipal Airport for
Bellissimo One’
s arrival
.
The FAA reps told Blackwell he could be there of his own free will or they were coming
to get him.

He’d ruffled a few feathers.

Bellissimo One
was coming in with military escorts.

This might get ugly.

“How am I supposed to turn on your electricity?” He scratched his neck; he looked
up and down the passageway; he inched away.

“Mr. Blackwell, you turned an airplane around. Surely you can turn on our electricity.”

He sighed heavily.

“And just one more really small thing,” I said.

He rolled his eyes.

“Would you unlock your V2 and let us have it?”

“What do you mean unlock it?”

“Override the thumb swipe.”

“Or give us your thumb.” (Fantasy.)

Thirty minutes later, we had power. We had Fredrick Blackwell’s V2 so we could move
around
Probability
, but still no way to get out of our own door.

“Fantasy,” No Hair said. “Go get me a miter blade.”

“What?”

“The silver Frisbee saw thing,” I said.

She took off.

No Hair, in a move I’d give anything to have on video so I could send it to MacGyver,
heated a strip of metal teeth with a hiss of orange from the blowtorch, held the saw
blade as close to the panel above the doorknob as he could, then tipped it up and
tapped once against the sensors. He shot a jolt of heat through so quickly it temporarily
short-circuited the keypad. The door popped open.

(Could we have done this two days ago? Seriously? Could we have?)

One thing we couldn’t do was wake up Jess, so we piled her on the tool cart and rolled
her. It’s not like we could leave her in 704 for her outlaw husband to find, because
there wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind he was looking for us. We closed the door behind
us and heard the gears click into place.

We were now officially locked out of 704. Which felt so different than being locked
in.

The first thing that happened was the elevator doors closed and caught a corner of
Jess’s
Probability
robe. The elevator ate the robe, which left us pushing her around in her rhinestone
anchor suit and six-inch silver heels.

* * *

Probability
was all but deserted. Scattered staff in spots, but no passengers. The fifty zillionaires
and their guests were either in their staterooms, at the garages on the Transportation
Deck in line for a Jing Ping ferry, or on the ferries to George Town. We didn’t pass
anyone who wasn’t talking about (Jess on a cart) the Knot on Your Life jackpots. The
casino, we overheard, was closed until further notice.

I guess so.

First, we used Fredrick Blackwell’s V2 to call Arlinda.

“Davis, I’m sorry,” she said. “Have you tried to talk your mother into anything? She
absolutely would not leave the casino with me. I
had
to go with Mr. Blackwell. I couldn’t be in two places at one time. I had to make
a decision between your mother and your husband.”

Oh
.

“The last time you saw Mother was in the casino?” I asked.

“With Mrs. Sanders,” she said.

“Do you have any idea where they went? Did Mother say anything?”

“SO!” Jess’s dark hair flew as she tried to figure out (a) where she was, and (b)
who we were, and (c) what had happened to her
Probability
robe.

“She said something about the pot roast.”