A Wild and Lonely Place (28 page)

Hy said, “Ask her to find out. If so, she should get its location in relationship to Esperance and some landmarks. I’ll call
you back in fifteen minutes or so, and in the meantime I’ll look into aircraft rentals.”

“Will do.” I gave him Regina’s number and turned the phone over to her.

She spoke with her acquaintance for a long time in French, jotting down notes on a scratch pad. When she finished she said,
“The airstrip is in bad condition, but Marcel says a good pilot could land there. He’s willing to assist us and has given
me the landmarks. You’ll have to fly out by daylight—too risky in the dark. Will that be a problem?”

“No, Hy’s checking on rentals right now.”

We sat back to wait for his call. It came fifteen minutes late, but he had good news. “I’ve got hold of a Cherokee One-eighty.
It’ll cost a king’s ransom, but RKI’s paying. Do we have an airstrip?”

“Yes.” I took Regina’s notes and described its condition.

“Piece of cake. Location?”

I gave him that, and the landmarks.

“I can be there in a couple of hours.”

“Habiba and I will be waiting.”

* * *

The sugar plantation had been established in the eighteenth century and allowed to fall to ruins in the nineteenth. Outbuildings
were collapsed, palmetto had claimed the fields, and moss weighed down the branches of the trees. Only the dark stone house
remained as a reminder of the days of cane and slavery. It too was in bad repair and covered with a tangle of vines; a ravaged
and rusted Studebaker moldered in its garden.

Regina had insisted we have Kenny drive us there and cautioned me against paying him when we arrived. Instead she took the
money and would turn it over to him only after we’d taken off and he’d delivered her home. The driver displayed little curiosity
about our mission; probably he thought we were going to the plantation to bother its present occupant about joining the church.
His only comment came as we entered the grounds; the plantation, he said, was “cheesy.”

After we got out of the taxi Regina asked me to wait with Habiba in the shade of an overgrown arbor near the junked car. She
went to the door of the house, knocked, and spoke for a time with someone inside. Then she returned to us, walking slowly
in the oppressive midafternoon heat.

“Marcel has given me directions to the airstrip. He’s a bit of a recluse, so he won’t be accompanying us.” She glanced at
the taxi, then shook her head. “It’s a good distance from the house. There’s an access road, but we have time to walk it,
and I don’t want that driver seeing the plane or its identification number.”

“You really don’t trust him.”

“As I said yesterday, I don’t
know
him. Suspicion of strangers has become a habit of mine.”

“Yet you trusted me when I came knocking on your door.”

“I’ve also developed instincts about people. I recognize my own kind.” She motioned toward the garden and we began to walk.
Habiba, who hadn’t said a word since she earlier accepted a glass of juice at Regina’s, clutched the leg of my trousers. I
squeezed her shoulder briefly, glad she didn’t want to hold my hand; it was too damn hot for physical contact.

Beyond the overrun garden the trees grew thicker and the moss hung lower. Regina said, “Marcel has really let this place go.”

“How long has he lived here?”

“Ten years.”

“It looks like more than ten years’ neglect to me.”

“Things grow rapidly here in the tropics. The previous owner had the property well on its way to recovery; he planned to make
it into a very exclusive resort.”

“What happened?”

“He died.”

Habiba’s hand tugged spasmodically at my trouser leg. I looked down, saw her head was bowed again. The word “died,” I knew,
had triggered her response. Soon we were going to have to talk about her mother’s death, before bottling up the experience
caused permanent emotional scars.

Regina had noticed, too. “Sorry,” she said softly.

We walked for nearly twenty minutes through the thick thorn forest and finally arrived at a cleared area through which a slender
ribbon of runway stretched. I stared at the cracked and potholed tarmac in dismay. I couldn’t have landed anything on that,
wouldn’t have attempted it. But Hy had landed all kinds of aircraft under all sorts of conditions. He could do it.

Regina was wiping sweat from her brow. I thought of her long walk back to the taxi. “Are you going to be okay?”

She smiled. “As my father’s continued existence proves, tough old birds run in the Altagracia family.”

“Still, I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through.”

“I would rather be doing this than knocking on the doors of people who don’t want to hear the Lord’s word. I long ago decided
that His message is better spread by action than by talk and literature.”

Maybe if my life had been different she’d have made me a convert, but religious faith didn’t work for me. Not that I was opposed
to religion, expecially when there were people like Regina doing good works in its name.

We waited, sweltering under the trees that encroached upon the tarmac. Habiba let go of my trousers and sat down, her back
against a palmetto bole. The birds had fled upon our arrival, and silence was heavy around us. I looked at my watch. How much
longer?

The minutes dragged. There was a rustling in the thorn forest, and I whirled, peering around. It went on for a moment, then
stopped. I glanced at Regina, who stood erect, fanning herself with her hand. Nothing to worry about, I decided. Regina knew
this type of terrain, would have reacted to a suspicious noise. Still, I continued to look around, seeing nothing, until I
heard a drone coming from the west.

A small plane appeared above the trees. Habiba jumped up and watched it, shading her eyes with her hands. Regina seemed to
have been in a heat-induced trance; now she came out of it, smiling broadly.

The Cherokee was white and trim. It flew in a steady descent toward the strip of tarmac. Soon we’d be in the air, heading
for a destination that would be one hop closer to home—and safety.

The landing gear was down and the flaps were partially extended. The plane neared the end of the runway. Made a pass over
it and kept going.

Regina and Habiba looked anxiously at me.

“He’s checking the condition of the tarmac,” I told them.

The plane made its turn and started back. Habiba grabbed my hand and gave a little jump. The Cherokee descended steadily,
its flaps fully extended now. It glided above the runway and touched down near its end. As it turned and taxied toward us,
I peeled Habiba’s fingers off mine and ran toward it.

The Cherokee came to a stop; its prop feathered and the power cut off. Its door opened and Hy looked out. “Anybody here want
to hitch a ride to the Florida Keys with me?” he called.

The Journey

May 26 – 28

Sunlight streaming down from a skylight, cooking me. More still, muggy air. More insect bites.

I’ve got to get out of here. Got to get to Habiba, to safety.

No, wait. I
am
safe, and so is she. We’re not in the Caribbean anymore.

I sat up and looked around. A small white room, thrift-shop furnishings, double bed with the imprint of a head on the other
pillow. Hy’s head. But where…?

Oh, right.

We were at the home of one of his network of old buddies, a man who hadn’t been here when we arrived the previous night and
whose name Hy hadn’t told me. On one of the small Florida Keys, just large enough to accommodate a few buildings and the airstrip
where we landed. Hy hadn’t mentioned the island’s name either, and his guarded manner told me that something was going on
here, possibly something illegal. I didn’t want to know what it was; I had enough to concern me.

I got up, went to the window, and parted the slats of the blinds. Shocking aquamarine water and a ramshackle dock. Two figures
seated at its end, their bare feet dangling. Hy and Habiba. She was talking, and he listened intently, nodding now and then.

Should I disturb them? Probably not; if I did, she might relapse into that worrying silence. Besides, I had things to take
care of.

First a shower. Then throw on my soiled, rumpled clothing. Then go in search of a phone.

* * *

The phone was in a kitchen that told me Hy’s friend probably lived alone. A trash can was crammed with takeout food containers;
beer bottles stood in the sink, linked by a trail of ants. I’m not the tidiest of housekeepers, but the smell in there would
have launched me on a three-day binge of cleaning. I opened a window to let some of it out, then placed a credit-card call
to Greg Marcus.

“It’s about time you got back to me,” he said. “You home?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Can’t say.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret, now would it? Did you check on Adah Joslyn?”

“I did. Sharon, we have a…situation on our hands.”

Bad news, when Greg used the word “situation” in that tone. “Tell me.”

“Well, I didn’t find anything out of the way at her apartment except for a huge cat that had torn a hole in a bag of Friskies
and eaten the whole thing. Practically ripped my hand off when I put out some tuna.”

Poor Charley!

“But,” he went on, “someone claiming to be the Diplo-bomber has posted on the Techno Web that he’s taken Joslyn hostage. He
says he’ll make his demands known soon.”

Jesus. “How do you know it’s really him? It could be some computer geek playing games. Did he present any proof he’s got her?”

“No, but until we know otherwise, we’ve got to take him seriously. And if he doesn’t have her, where is she?”

Guiltily I thought of Adah’s guns, presently in the strongbox bolted to the floor of my linen closet. If what she’d said in
her phone message to me was true, she’d gone up against the bomber unarmed—and it was my fault. “So what’s being done about
this?” I asked.

“Ed Parkhurst, head of the task force, is setting everything in place for getting her back once the bomber makes his demands;
our chief is monitoring the situation. In case it’s money he wants, they’ve made an arrangement with the Federal Reserve,
and their people’re working round the clock to identify him. Their court order for a list of the Web’s subscribers was denied
yesterday, but now it’s a whole new ball game, and they’ve reapplied. We expect he’ll ask for a ransom—”

“It’s not money he wants.”

“What, then?”

I’d begun to sense it, but it wasn’t yet clear. “Greg, I’ve got to go.” I broke the connection.

Adah, in the hands of the bomber. My God. What would he do to her? What was she feeling right now? She wouldn’t break, not
if I knew her. Wouldn’t let him see her fear, no matter what. Poor Adah—full of bravado in the face of her career crashing
and burning, skating on thin emotional ice to begin with. And now she’d fallen into the hands of a man who toyed with people’s
lives, who had killed indiscriminately, would kill again.…

What exactly had she said in the message on my machine? “I stumbled onto a lead on the bomber by coincidence, and it’s too
damn close to home for comfort. I’m heading out now to confirm it. Sure wish you hadn’t appropriated my guns.”

If Adah died because I’d done that, I would never, ever forgive myself.

Don’t pick out your hair shirt yet, McCone. Do something. Dig at that motive you’ve begun to sense.

I picked up the receiver and placed a call to my office.

“Shar!” Mick’s voice was an octave higher than normal. “Have you heard about Adah? Her mother called, and then her father.
They’ve both gone round the bend, and it’s not pretty on their side.”

“I can imagine. If they call again, tell them we’re working on a promising lead. It won’t be a lie; I need you to dig up some
more data for me. Get Charlotte Keim to help you. You have something to write with?”

“Yes, but where—”

“No time for questions. Get moving on this.”

* * *

When they heard my footsteps on the dock, Habiba and Hy turned. “Thought you’d never wake up,” he said, grabbing my ankle
and squeezing it.

“I suppose the two of you have been up since sunrise.”

“Damn near, huh, Habiba?”

She nodded and smiled shyly.

I sat down beside them, let my bare feet dangle, too.

Hy said, “It’s too pretty here to sleep all morning. In a few minutes I’m taking Habiba for a spin in the outboard. Come along,
if you like.”

“We’re not leaving right away, then?”

“I’ve booked us a flight out of Key West at five-forty.”

“Commercial flight?”

“Uh-huh. American Eagle. The strike’s been settled, and we’ll connect with our San Francisco flight in Miami.”

“Good. Where’s your friend? Still not home?”

“He came in early this morning, and now he’s ferrying the Cherokee back to Santo Domingo.”

“Nice of him.”

“He owes me.”

“So did Cam Connors.”

Hy’s jaw grew tight. “Let’s not ruin a beautiful morning by talking about him. So, do you want to come along with us?”

“I don’t think so. I want to call Renshaw to tell him we’re safe, and I’m waiting to hear from Mick.”

He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

I shook my head, motioning at Habiba; she was staring down into the water but appeared to be listening intently.

“Well, suit yourself. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He stood, held out his hand to the little girl. “Come on, sailor.”

I watched them as they walked along the dock and angled across the sand to an old Chris-Craft that was beached under a stand
of mangroves. Then I got up and went to the house.

* * *

I was back on the dock when they returned. Habiba was wearing a new floppy-brimmed straw hat that was more my size than hers;
beneath it her face looked sunburned and weary. Hy didn’t look much better. Habiba waved at me and trudged toward the house.
He came along the dock carrying a shopping bag.

“Is she all right?” I asked as he sat down beside me.