The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (5 page)
Read The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Online
Authors: James S. Gardner
Tags: #Suspense & Thrillers
***
They anchored behind Wood Cay waiting for the weather to improve. After waiting for three days, Foley decided the seas had laid down enough to make the sixty-mile crossing to Bimini. At first, the ocean treated them kindly, but gradually a freshening northeast wind furrowed whitecaps. The old Hatteras smashed headlong into mountainous waves that had rolled down unimpeded from the North Atlantic. She would ride over a flat-faced swell and then dig her nose into the next wave jettisoning sheets of foamy blue water. Angry wind blew salt spray in their faces so hard they had to cock their heads to breathe. It felt like the ocean had spawned needles. And then, as suddenly as the ocean had turned ugly, it relented. The water color changed from deep purple to turquoise as the ocean climbed from a thousand fathoms to less than three. The gin clear water on the Bahama Bank was oily calm. They watched torpedo-shaped barracudas and cero mackerel skirt away from the bow. Off the stern, they saw purple sea fans and orange coral whips bending in the current like windblown grasses.
Rigby watched his wife standing at the yacht's helm. For a split second they were lost in each other's gaze. Helen was experiencing that moment of bliss most people find elusive. She wondered if her husband felt the same way. As Rigby scanned the horizon, he remembered the first time he met his wife.
It was at a New Year's Eve party on Willie's farm in South Africa. I was on leave from the Rhodesian Army. She was on holiday from her Peace Corp duties. I was becoming disillusioned about the war. She had bubbling enthusiasm for her work. I was trying to kill Africans. She was trying to teach them to read. I remember she asked me a harmless question about the progress of the war. “Miss O'Neil, I'd like to remind you, I'm fighting for my country's survival. We're standing up to the communists. Rhodesians are dying for something your country failed to do in Southeast Asia. You thank us by boycotting my country. You bloody liberals are so wonderfully full of yourselves. You'll forgive me if I'm not overly impressed by your work here in Africa.”
“So, you're killing Africans to prevent them from becoming communists. I'm afraid your logic escapes me.”
“No, Miss O'Neil, we're trying to kill them before they kill us. You see, that's the way it works in a war. I guess you'd spit on us just like you spit on the soldiers returning from Viet Nam.”
“Willie dear, please excuse us. I need to speak with Mr. Croxford in private.” As soon as we were alone, she lit into me. “How dare you label me. You don't know me or anything about me. Teaching poor African children doesn't make me the enemy. Why if I didn't feel so sorry for you, I would have slapped you silly in there.”
“I don't believe you're capable of slapping anyone,” I said.
“Believe what you want.” Her eyes darted as she spoke. Her cheeks were flushed. Helen was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I remember a feeling of serenity wash through me. Whatever it was, it made me shudder.
“Miss O'Neil, I know you're going to think I'm crazy, but I have something I need to say.” “Let's hear it. Leaving the table like that was impolite. Not that you'd know what's considered bad manners.” “I…I think I've just fallen in love with you.” I stood up and turned my back to her. “What? Why that's the silliest thing I've ever heard. I think you've had too much to drink or you're suffering from some type of battle fatigue. Poor man, I think we need to get you some medical help.”
“Wait, there's more. Someday, we're going to be married. I've never been surer about anything in my life. And yes, I have had too much to drink, but I know exactly what I'm saying.”
“I see. I'll say one thing. You are, without a doubt, the strangest man I've ever known. We better go back inside before they think we've both lost our minds.”
Rigby suspended his daydreaming to point at a speck on the horizon; it was North Bimini Island. The sighting of land reassured them, but for some reason, Helen felt uneasy.
As soon as they anchored, she started in on her husband. “If you're serious about canceling with Max, do it now. I've got a bad feeling about this safari.” Rigby yes honeyed her, but he was searching for a way to accommodate Max.
He took his time running the launch across the bay. The
Liti-Gator
was docked on the northern tip of the island. Rigby headed for the south end. He needed time to think. He tossed the bowline to a Bahamian standing on the dock. The man was stoop-shouldered. He wore a tattered business suit and a woolen skycap. His eyes had lost any hint of whiteness. “The name's Cornbread,” he said, securing the dinghy's line.
“Captain, are you in need of a guide? I know everything about Bimini.”
“Do you know Captain Foley?”
“Foley's my step-husband? Yaah, ve go vay bock.”
“Friend, I'm unfamiliar with the term, ‘step-husband.'”
“I'm married to Foley's ex-vife.”
“Interesting. Cornbread, I do need a guide. Why don't you show me where the
Liti-Gator
's tied up?”
“Yaah, you must be a big shot if you know Mr. Turner.”
“So, you know Max Turner?”
“Vell, I couldn't say I know him personally.”
As they walked down the potholed road to the marina, Cornbread gave him a Cook's tour. As Rigby listened, he remembered reading that Bimini was one of Hemingway's favorite haunts, and that he affectionately referred to the island's inhabitants as what was left after God was given an enema. He looked at Cornbread and smiled. They met a man on the road. The man gave Cornbread a smelly barracuda covered in flies. “Are you gonna eat that thing?” Rigby asked, after the man walked away.
“Damn right I'm gonna eat it. I'm gonna make me some fish-head stew. If you vant, I could bring you some.”
“Thanks, but I'm not much of a fish eater.”
The road dissected sagging shacks and unpainted buildings. A giant mound of discarded conch shells provided the foundation for a rickety dock. A half-sunken sloop lay at anchor in the harbor. Some rotting dinghies bobbed against the shoreline. There was a freighter, the
Fascinating Bitch
, moored to a wharf. A mangy dog stopped licking himself and growled halfheartedly at the men.
They met a fat woman standing in the middle of the road. She wore a tee shirt with the words “Jesus is coming and he's pissed off” printed across the front. Cornbread stopped to introduce her, but when he turned his back, she sucker-punched him. The blow knocked him flat on his ass. “Cornbread, you good for nuttin' bum. If I catch you messin with ‘dat woman again, I'm gonna beat you shitless,” the woman hissed.
“Are you hurt?” Rigby offered, helping Cornbread up.
“I'm not hurt. My feelings are hurt.”
“Who was the woman?”
“Her? She's my vife, I'm sorry to say. That gal's mostly too rough for me.”
“You should fight people your own size.”
“Yaah, she's a big one all right. Bahamian men like the fat ladies. But Lord, ‘dat girl is so unruly.”
Rigby reached out and straightened Cornbread's lapels. “Cornbread, it's been fun. Here's a little something for you,” he said, handing him some wrinkled bills.
“God bless you.” The old Bahamian stuffed the money in his pocket and saluted.
***
Max Turner watched Rigby Croxford walk towards him. He knew Rigby would try to worm his way out of the lion hunt. Everything was riding on hiring Croxford. Max had devised a plan that would deliver Rigby back into the fold. “Well, well, I figured you'd turn up,” Max yelled down to Rigby. “How do you like Bimini? It's always reminded me of a rotten tooth in a woman's smile,” Max said, with an expansive wave.
“Oh, I don't know. I guess I like Bimini because it reminds me of Africa.”
Max ignored his rebut and continued, “Praise the Lord. My prayers have been answered. Rigby, I owe you more than you'll ever know,” Max stammered, stepping down on the dock.
“Max, we need to talk.”
“I know, I know. But first, I've got a confession to make. Rigby, you said you have a daughter.”
“She lives in Cape Town.” Rigby was about to explain why he couldn't take him to Africa, but Max was one step ahead of him. Max held up his hand to stop Rigby from speaking. His face was pinched in sadness and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke. “I have a confession. I wasn't totally honest with you about my reasons for wanting to go to Africa. A little over a year ago, I lost my son in Uganda. It was a senseless terrorist attack. I'm sure you read about it. Life for me has been meaningless, ever since. I felt something when I met you. I need to go to Africa to bring closure to the worst thing that can happen to a parent, the loss of a child. I apologize for not telling you the truth.” Max wiped a tear from his eye and looked up at Rigby. His face was flushed with emotion as he continued. “You said you had something you wanted to say.”
“It really wasn't that important.”
“Let's never talk about this again.”
“I understand. I guess I should. The next time we see each other, it'll be in Africa,” Rigby said, shaking hands.
Max watched him disappear behind some weathered shacks. There was never a doubt, he thought, smiling. Max entered the salon and used the spiral stairs to the staterooms. He tried to open his daughter-in-law's door, but it was locked. “Sweetheart, are you all right?” he asked with his ear against the door.
“I'm a little better.”
“Can I get you something to eat?”
“I don't think I could keep it down,” Ashlyn said, taking a bite of her sandwich.
***
D
an Gillespie gargled with mint flavored mouthwash, swallowed and then grimaced. He exhaled into his hand to check his breath, satisfied he extinguished a cigarette and waved his hand to disperse the smoke. He closed his eyes and rocked back in his chair. Why would someone like Lynn Allison or Lynn Turner or whatever she calls herself, hire me? He used a dime to rub off a lottery ticket. “As usual, fucked again,” he said to himself, tossing the crumpled ticket in a file cabinet. If I can talk her into paying me a retainer, I could pay my dockage.
The knock on the door startled him. Before he could answer it, Lynn Allison stepped into his office. He had seen her picture in the society section of the local newspaper, but nothing prepared him for seeing her in person. He felt his heart race. Women like Lynn Allison oozed sexuality like a flower secretes scent. Danny boy, control yourself, he thought.
Scanning the society columns was one of Gillespie's hustles. He looked for a younger woman married to a wealthy older man or the reverse. In Palm Beach, both sexes were fair game in the divorce business. Set up a tight surveillance schedule, and
voila
, that little old indiscretion seemed to always rear its ugly head. A photo with his card attached and bang he had a client. Gillespie knew it was a dirty business, but he had bills to pay.
“Won't you sit down? Would you like something to drink?” he asked, guessing she would refuse given the condition of the glass sitting on his desk.
“No thank you,” she said.
“It is Mrs. Allison or Mrs. Turner?” he asked.
“I use Lynn Allison.”
“I was wondering how you got my name.”
“The sign out front confused me. Colonic hydro-therapy. Body massages. Private detective. What
is
the nature of your work?”
“I'm the detective, all right. We like to think of it as one-stop shopping. Sorry, it was a bad joke. Who did you say recommended me?”
“I didn't say, Mr. Gillespie. We haven't discussed the work I have in mind. Perhaps you'll understand more after I explain a few things,” she said in a low rolling southern twang.
“I'm all ears, Ms. Allison.”
He couldn't stop staring at her. He knew he had to edit his words carefully or he would say something asinine. Beautiful women made him say stupid things.
“What do you know about Maxwell Turner?”
“Well, let me see. I know you were married to him. I know he's loaded. He's the biggest ambulance chaser in the state, if not the country. Sorry, maybe I should have used ‘attorney.'”
“There's nothing you could say about my ex-husband that would offend me. People know him as a philanthropist. I'm afraid I've seen a somewhat darker side of Mr. Turner.”
“Exactly what's your problem with Turner? I mean, above and beyond the obvious problems of an ex-wife.”
“Did you know my sister's married to Max's son, Arthur? Arthur was Max's only child. Arthur was from Max's third marriage. I'm sorry to say, I was his fifth wife.”
“I'm confused. You said your sister's married to Turner's son and you were Max's fifth wife,” he said, rubbing his forehead.
“Puzzling, isn't it?”
“Well, yes, but then again, it is Palm Beach.” God damn it, you just had to say something to piss her off.
“Arthur disappeared in Africa a little over a year ago. My sister was one of the survivors. It was that terrorist attack in Uganda. It was in all the newspapers.”
“I don't read gossip columns,” he said, without thinking. There you go again.
“I'd hardly call this gossip,” Lynn snapped. “You
are
a private investigator, aren't you?”
“That's what it says on my county occupational license. Please continue.”
“Terrorists killed eight tourists. It was barbaric. Since that nightmare, Max has kept my sister in total seclusion. I've called his office, but I keep getting the same old runaround—‘We're sorry, your sister's not ready to see anyone.' I know my sister. This is not like her. There's something not right about this.”
“So you want me to make contact with your sister. That should be easy enough.”
“I wouldn't be so sure. People say Max is grief stricken, I'm not buying it. I just need to make sure that my sister's safe. Is that too much to expect?”
“I'm not following you. Why wouldn't your ex-husband be grief stricken by the death of his only son? And why wouldn't your sister be safe?”
“Did I say that? I didn't mean it that way. This thing has been very upsetting,” Lynn quickly replied back at Gillespie. She stood up and walked over to the window. Gillespie felt his pulse quicken as he visualized her naked. She took a cigarette out of a golden case and placed it between her lips. After lighting it, she ran her hand along the windowsill and didn't seem surprised by what she found.
“You already tried hiring some of the other detective agencies in town and they all turned you down, because they all do business with your ex-husband's law firm. Now it makes sense. I mean, why you finally got around to hiring me.”
“I hired Richard Langley two months ago,” she said, blowing the windowsill dust from her fingertips.
“Two weeks ago, the police found Langley in a motel room,” Dan said, interrupting her. “He'd been sodomized and damn near beaten to death. Poor guy's still in a coma. Police report said it was a gay thing. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. It just surprised me. He was always a puss-man. Sorry, I was thinking out loud. We frequented the same watering holes in town and chased the same….” Embarrassed, he retreated back to his desk.
“This is a copy of Mr. Langley's report,” Lynn said after a pause. “Once you've had a chance to read it, you'll understand why I'm concerned about my sister.”
“Are you using Miss or Mrs. Allison? Have you remarried?” He brushed back his hair and straightened his tie.
“Allison's my maiden name. I haven't remarried, nor do I have any intention of ever doing so. Why do you ask?”
“I just thought it might be more convenient if we discuss our business over dinner.” He looked at her and smiled suggestively. Oh shit! Now she's really pissed off. You just had to say more stupid shit, didn't you? He tried his forgive me for being an asshole look, but she wasn't buying it.
“I see. Mr. Gillespie, do I detect a Yankee accent?”
“I'm New York born and bred.”
“I have no interest in having dinner with you. Puss-man, isn't that the vulgar term you used? I'd like to keep our arrangement on a purely professional level. Be sure to think about how much you're going to charge me. As you know my ex-husband's very rich—unfortunately, I'm on somewhat of a tighter budget. Now, if you'll excuse me.” She looked Dan right in the eye.
“Anything you say, Miss Allison. After all, you're paying the freight. Sorry about the comment. The last thing I wanna do is fight the Civil War.”
“I don't care for the term, Civil War. I prefer to call it the Great Unpleasantness. Goodbye, Mr. Gillespie. Call me when you have something.”
Bingo! She hates me, but I just made last month's alimony payment. He watched her cross the street from his office window. That, my friend, is a world class ass, he said to himself.
By midnight that evening, Gillespie had consumed the better part of a fifth of Bullet bourbon and smoked all but his last cigarette. He fanned the pages of Langley's report across his desk. He washed his face with his hands. Was there a connection between Langley's beating and Max Turner? No way, couldn't be. What about these fucking cases? Turner would shit if he knew someone was examining his private files. He reread the note Langley had sent to Lynn Allison.
Dear Ms. Allison:
Your suspicion may be justified. The lawsuit of Willie Jamal Rolle v. Golden Tobacco Inc. did show a similar pattern to five other cases. There was a multi-million dollar judgment in favor of the plaintiff, who was found to be mentally incompetent. The late Mr. Rolle died six months after receiving his settlement. Rolle's estate was left to the church in question, as were the other settlements. All plaintiffs died within one year after receiving their final settlement checks. All of the estates were never contested. There were no heirs. Max Turner holds the mortgages on the church and the surrounding twenty-two thousand acre ranch. I should have more information next week.
Sincerely,
Richard Langley
Langley, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, of course they all died. They died of fucking lung cancer. He extinguished his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. Gillespie tipped up the bottle to take another swig. Over the top of the bottle he looked at a man who had slipped into his office. He was a large, bald man.
“You have the wrong office,” Gillespie said, thumping his chest to ease the heartburn. “I have the right office. Smoking is such a filthy habit. I hate the smell of cigarettes on a man,” the big man said, licking his lips.
***