Dying for Revenge (41 page)

He tightened his jaw.

The stare of El Matador. The man who took contracts on anything breathing.

She said, “Your bitch is waiting on you.”

“I’m looking at my bitch.”

“No, you’re looking at your idiot. I’m not smart enough to be a
conniving bitch.
”

“And I was a bigger idiot to marry somebody as self-centered and financially destructive as you.”

He didn’t take his eyes away from her, didn’t move.

Sweat pouring down her face. Down her back. Her body a heat lamp.

He nodded. “Your lies are like a silent fart. Can’t see ’em, but I can smell ’em.”

“What lies, Matthew? Either show your hand or shut up with it.”

“I can do that.” He nodded. “That night you dumped your goods, where did you say you were?”

“Why?”

“You said you were riding that scooter from the northwest part of the island.”

“What’s your point?”

“They found a guy dead up that way. Was shot up close. Same caliber as your backup.”

“Why are we having this chat about a dead gangbanger?”

“Guys at the table were talking about it just now. Last night when they were at Wendy’s the working girls and the locals and tourists who came to see them dance were talking about it.”

“They were having conversations with whores and taking advantage of their poverty; so what?”

“Word on the street is that the dead guy was a rent-a-dred.”

“What’s a rent-a-dred?”

“Make sure you don’t find out.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s your last time.”

“Or what?”

“Try me. Go ahead.” He spoke in a deep, commanding voice. “Try me right here, right now.”

Revenge. She thought about revenge. That overpowering sensation, a need that destroyed logic, made the wise foolish, the need for revenge being a demand that was satisfied only by action, an action that was greater than the offense itself. Revenge was more compelling than calculating, a passion that was not a thought, a desire that was not an idea but an ideal. She felt the need for revenge.

Revenge was not about punishment. It was about equity. The equity of suffering.

And she was suffering.

Suffering and angry, her mind on its own, in killer mode, focused on the type of vengeance that would generate equal and appropriate levels of suffering for the man in front of her. None would be good enough. Her hand was inside her purse, on her weapon, Matthew’s gut in the line of fire, point-blank range. He could out-argue her, but one bullet would widen his eyes and change his disposition.

If she shot him she would have to kill him, give herself a nine-millimeter divorce.

He was trying to force her to be the woman he needed her to be while she was fighting to get him to be the type of husband she needed him to be. The epic battle between man and woman.

Her stomach; twinges of pain came and went, mild throbbing that she kept well-hidden.

Unyielding, Mathew said, “I expect you to see this job through until its completion.”

She nodded, her agreement not hiding her reluctance, then she said, “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Be glad that I love you. Right now you should be very fucking glad that I love you.”

She turned around, fighting cramps, heels clicking across the tiled floor, queasiness rising.

 

Matthew rushed out behind her, followed by the rest of the team, men who had put their shades back on before they were greeted by the brightness of the sun; some had their hats on before they exited the restaurant, others had hats in hands. The Lady from Detroit came out in the middle of that pack. They all had tense expressions. They moved down the stairs at top speed.

The Lady from Detroit made eye contact with her, sneered as she passed, surrounded by bodyguards, secret service guarding the first female president. So much disdain was in her eyes.

Matthew came to her. “Gideon is on the way.”

“When does he get here?”

“His plane is about to land.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Showtime. Get your shit together. Time to pay some bills.”

Thirty-one

judgment in stone

Antigua was
less than one hundred miles up ahead. From San Juan it was a short flight to V. C. Bird International, a little over an hour, the layover at gate seven longer than the flight itself.

Hawks had my binoculars in her hands, looking out the window as she said, “Skies are so blue.”

“We’re coming up on the island.”

“I was in Puerto Rico and now I’m in the West Indies.”

“Puerto Rico was a layover.”

“I was in Puerto Rico. I don’t care if it was just the airport, it was Puerto Rico.”

“If you say so.”

Hawks was excited, but my mind was somewhere else. My mind was on a woman who lived in Detroit. When I got my hands on her I was going to do more damage to her than heroin and crack cocaine had done to Motown, was going to do more damage to her than Butch Jones, Maserati Rick, and the Chambers Brothers had done to that shopworn city. I would be her Twelfth Street Riot, would leave the bodies of anyone who came between me and getting my hands around her neck slaughtered.

Hawks said, “Well, this spectacular moment will definitely make it in my diary.”

I shifted, created a smile. “You have a diary?”

“I sure do. And you’re in it. Some really nice things followed by a lot of not-so-nice things.”

Jolly Harbour and its north and south fingers came into view first, mostly villas and timeshares. Hawks focused on that area as the plane passed over, saw the casino, Epicurean, other shops. She had the window seat, seeing the stunning island for the first time, smiling like a little girl.

“Good Lord, all those palm trees.”

“The tall ones are coconut trees. The short ones are palm trees.”

Hawks smiled. “I can’t wait.”

“To get this contract over with?”

“Not that. Not even thinking about that. Sounds like a five-minute job, if that.”

“Then what?”

“Can’t wait to put on a bikini and unload my wagon in another country.”

I laughed.

She smiled. “Where did you say the snorkeling place was?”

“Snorkeling at Long Bay.”

“Never seen a steel band before. I want to see that and listen to calypso and reggae music while I wriggle my toes in the sand of one of the beaches. I want to see that Sandals place. See billboards for that place all over America. And I want to see historic sites in English Harbour. And see Barbuda.”

“You’re excited.”

“A little.” She laughed. “On the way back we should stay in Puerto Rico a night.”

“Your wagon must have a mighty heavy load.”

“I want to do some of those things you were telling me about. Always wanted to see a rain forest. Hike to the La Mina waterfalls. Para-sail and kayak. Sit on a beach and read until I get sunburned.”

Other things came to my mind.

I said, “I can’t do it after we leave here.”

“Your little problem.”

I nodded. “After that is done, when it’s safe for me, we can come back to Puerto Rico.”

“There you go promising stuff.”

“I’m serious.”

“From a man who can’t remember to make a phone call.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down?”

“Not in my nature. Forgiving people, that’s just not in my nature.”

First the American Airlines flight passed over Jolly Harbour and the villas on its north and south fingers, then out in the distance was the snaking All Saints Road; seconds later we were over Factory Road, then passing an area where they were building a new soccer field. All of that passed by on the plane’s rapid descent. As soon as the packed plane touched down everyone started turning their cellular phones back on.

Hawks said, “Small airport.”

“This airport was an American military air base back in World War Two.”

“Baggage claim at Miami International was bigger than that.”

She handed me the binoculars, Bushnell Digital Stealth. I slipped them inside my backpack next to another pair of binoculars, that second pair capable of night vision as well.

Our flight landed and I took out my iPhone to check on Catherine and the kid, was about to look at the cameras in Powder Springs, stressed and worried, but I had problems getting online. I needed to call Alvin White and make sure he was watching over them, but I felt safe with him on the job. First thing I did was call my message center. I had an urgent message. I cursed. Had to be a delay on the Cessna or the other hardware I had ordered to take my anger to the Midwest. I was wrong. The message was from Konstantin, a message I wished I had gotten before I had boarded this flight in Puerto Rico.

Everything stopped as I listened to the message from Konstantin.

Hawks was trying to check her voice mail but couldn’t. Verizon’s signal didn’t reach this far.

This flight had already touched down. There was no going back, no going anywhere, not without getting off the plane, not without going through customs, not without leaving the airport to buy a ticket. The only way off the island was by plane or boat. I didn’t have access to a boat. I’d have to go to the ticket counter to book another flight, would have to step into an open area, an area that would have security watching, making sure everyone went in the same direction, no chance of slipping in another direction and making my own exit. In the blink of an eye I went over my options. There were none.

I had to get off the plane.

I said, “I have a problem, Hawks.”

She looked at me, wondering, her long ponytail hanging over her shoulder, that girlish smile slipping from her face. The face of a strong woman returned, one who did harsh things for a price.

My expression was dark, intense, a powder keg, and my thoughts gave off sparks.

I whispered, “There is no job.”

She whispered in return, “It was canceled? The Stanford contract was recalled?”

My jaw was tight, anger suppressed. “Never was one.”

I leaned over, got closer to Hawks’s ear, told her as much as I could in a few seconds.

She said, “Detroit?”

I nodded.

“No way. You’re telling me that woman paid that much to set you up?”

Again I nodded.

Hawks said, “Contract was offered at a half a million dollars Eastern Caribbean.”

Again I nodded.

“And half was paid up front. They dug deep to get you to come down here.”

“They dug deeper than a brand-new grave.”

Hawks paused, moved braided hair to the back. “What do we do?”

“Separate.”

“My cellular doesn’t work here.”

I nodded, knew what she meant. If her cellular worked we could have separated and remained on the phones, pretended we were chatting with other people while we communicated and planned our moves.

Hawks said, “Stay mixed in with the people. Get in the middle of a group.”

I almost smiled. She told me what I already knew, just wasn’t sure if that would matter.

Death was out there waiting for me and I thought about the kid. Thought about Catherine.

X. Y. Z.

It didn’t look like I would live long enough to know.

I leaned and looked out the window. Looked like several flights had come in at the same time; the line going to customs was going to be long. Other flights were boarding. Pandemonium in a small space. The flight attendant announced they were deplaning from two doors, one at the rear of the plane and the other at row nine. Our seats were about halfway between both. I spied the aisle to see if anyone on this flight was on my tail, if anyone here had followed me from Atlanta to Puerto Rico to the place Detroit was about to make my final destination. Again I leaned and looked out at the blacktop.

Security. Customs. The police. Anyone who took dollars over a badge could be on her team.

I had gone through airport security in America so I had no real weapons. And neither did Hawks. I was naked. It was a perfect setup, money being the cheese in this trap.

Hawks asked, “Do they park the plane at a gate and we walk into a breezeway?”

I shook my head. “There are no gates here, not like in the States. No walking inside an airport directly from the plane. Everybody lands and walks across the tarmac until they get to the terminal.”

“Wide open. James Earl Ray didn’t have that much room to play with.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.”

Hawks opened her purse, took out two charge cards, handed me one. She gave me a Bic pen too. Blue ink. I opened my backpack, took out four pencils that had been sharpened, taped two together with masking tape that I had brought along, handed those to Hawks, then I taped two more pencils together, slipped those inside my back pocket.

Across the aisle one of the passengers was finishing a can of ginger ale.

Hawks leaned over, asked the woman if she could have the can, said she was a collector.

I put the can inside my backpack.

Hawks asked, “Anyplace to shop between here and customs?”

“Nothing you can get to. Outside, soon as you leave the building there is a little spot called Clarkie’s Snacks and Liquors, right on the other side of the door; they sell liquor.”