Captive Secrets (19 page)

Father Sebastian paused and then turned to face Luis, his hands feverishly working the beads around his waist. “Yes, Señor Domingo?”

“Father, what I said to you moments ago, my confession as to my plans, I'd like you to consider it just that—a confession. A sacred trust. Never to leave this room.”

The priest nodded, his eyes infinitely weary. “You need not worry. I have never broken any of my vows in all my years. Your . . . plans are safe with me. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

Luis's eyes smoldered as he watched the gnarled figure make its way to the staircase. “We'll talk again.
Buenas noches,
Father.”

Luis Domingo closed the door quietly behind him. The night was warm and dark. He stood on the stone step, savoring the flower-scented air before he reached into his pocket for a cigar. When the tip glowed brightly, he began his long walk back to the
Silver Lady.

Turning at one point to take a last look behind him, he saw two yellowish lights wink on the second floor of the parish house. The good Father and . . . who else? The drunken old man from the tavern, no doubt. Earlier in the day the tavern owner had told him the sea salt had trudged off with the priest.

Luis drew deeply on the cigar. Now, what possible connection could a priest and an old sailor have in common? He stopped in his tracks and blew a cloud of blue-black smoke in the still air. An old man, a nervous old priest, and a young girl who'd just changed her mind about entering the convent . . . A conspiracy?

As he strolled down the hard-packed road, Luis allowed his thoughts to drift. Nothing else made sense. It had to be a conspiracy. Clearly he would have to interrogate the officers of the Dutch East India Company and anyone else who could remember back to the Sea Siren's reign of terror.

By the time he boarded his ship, his thoughts had turned inward. Grimacing, he tossed the remains of the cigar overboard and headed to his cabin. What kind of man was he that he would suspect a priest, a memory-fogged old man, and a sweet, innocent young woman? He cursed himself for his shabby, uncharitable thoughts, and wondered what would happen in heaven if the good Father, Fury van der Rhys, and he bombarded God with prayers that were in direct conflict with one another. Whom would that unfathomable Spirit help? The holy man, of course, and the young religious woman.

“Son of a bitch!” he said as he climbed into his bunk. Then he threw back his head and laughed bitterly. “Son
of a bitch
!”

Luis Domingo struggled with the rage that threatened to engulf him. Exactly thirty days earlier the
Silver Lady
had been attacked and plundered, and he was no closer to finding the pirates now than he was on that fateful day. No other sightings had been chronicled. He knew the captains and crews of the ships he'd questioned, as well as the government officials and town merchants he'd interrogated were wondering by now if he'd lost his wits. He was the nightly topic of dinner conversation, but he was too angry to care. For weeks he'd done nothing but seek information, and at last he was forced to acknowledge that there was none to be had, a realization that only increased his anger. No man liked to be made a fool of.

He was standing at the harbor now with the rest of the tradesmen, watching a brigantine limp into port. He wondered what account her captain would give when he set foot on land. His ship carried a monstrous-size hole in her stern; apparently the attacker had gotten off a good shot broadside. The Spaniard hated himself for hoping the marauding pirate had been the sea slut, as he now referred to her in his mind. But if it was the same woman who'd attacked the
Silver Lady,
Batavia would finally have to take him seriously. And if the brig's cargo had been meant for the Dutch East India Company, they would go after the pirate themselves.

Luis let out his breath in an exploding sigh when, the instant he set foot on land, the captain started to babble almost incoherently about the famous Sea Siren. All heads turned in Luis's direction.

Luis moved closer to the Dutch East India's manager. “What was she carrying, Dykstra?”

He shrugged bitterly. “A goddamn fortune in cloves, nutmegs, and silks. . . . Look, now is as good a time as any for me to apologize for doubting you. Twenty years is a long time . . . you can't blame people for being skeptical about the sudden reappearance of a legend.”

“What are you going to do?” Luis asked.

“What I would do myself if I weren't too old—hunt her down and bring her back in irons.” He turned to Luis and smiled. “Which is just what I'm going to hire you to do.”

Luis laughed mirthlessly. “I cannot conceive of any commission I'd rather undertake. You may consider me hired.”

There was no answering laughter from the Dutch East India's manager. “Excellent. Señor Domingo, if you'll follow me back to the office, I'll be glad to discuss terms with you. I have full powers here, and I'm a fair man, as fair as Regan van der Rhys, who held this job before me. The last time the Siren was in these waters, the company was almost ruined because we waited too long to act on the information we had. I won't allow that to happen this time.”

Luis bit down on his lower lip. “I, too, consider myself a fair man. I think we'll be able to come to an agreement.”

“This time I want the woman captured,” Dykstra emphasized. “You're going to have to forget about being noble because of her sex. There's no such thing as courtesy on the high seas. I don't care what condition she's in, as long as you bring her in. Do we understand each other?”

Luis nodded. “How much time do I have?” he asked.

“As much time as it takes,” Dykstra said, mopping at his flushed face. “Within reason, of course.” If there was one thing he wanted to avoid, it was to retire from the Dutch East India Company under a cloud. He wasn't sure Luis Domingo was the right man to send after the Siren, but he was the only man available. He was almost certain Regan van der Rhys would approve his choice.

Luis mopped at his own brow as he and Dykstra left the docks. “I'll need to talk with you at length. I want to know everything you know about the Sea Siren and the parts you and Regan van der Rhys played during her reign of terror. He brought you into his confidence, did he not?”

“Of course,” Dykstra wheezed, struggling to keep up with the Spaniard's brisk pace. “We were . . . are the best of friends. Regan van der Rhys is the man who . . . I wouldn't have this position if it weren't for the mynheer. Come, have supper tonight at my house. I have an excellent cook, and later if you . . . feel . . . have the desire, we can . . . ah, visit another very old friend of both Mynheer van der Rhys's and mine.”

Luis smiled. “Are you referring to Clarice's . . . establishment?”

Dykstra laughed. “So you know Clarice. Of course everyone knows of Clarice, but there are few people who
know
her, if you take my meaning.”

“Perfectly.” Luis inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I'd be honored to join you for supper. I'll look forward to a pleasant evening, then.”

 

Alone in his offices, Dykstra stared moodily at the patch on the wall where the picture of the Sea Siren had hung for so many years. He would miss looking at it every day now that Domingo had just left with it, claiming it as his own. The portrait had somehow become quite dear to him; he'd almost come to regard his possession of it as a sacred trust of sorts, bequeathed to him by Regan van der Rhys as his successor, so to speak. But there was no way in hell he was going to believe the Sea Siren of his early days was back in business. It simply wasn't possible. Regan had personally given him his word that the infamous wench had retired from the sea.

Dykstra leaned back in his chair and hooked his booted feet over the edge of his desk. He should be in a flap of rage over the sacking of the company's ship, but he wasn't. This was what had been missing in his life—the excitement he and Regan used to experience when the Siren was at sea. He liked the feeling of anticipation, of single-minded purpose. Domingo was going to be another Regan, he could sense it. He threw back his head and laughed when he thought about how Clarice would probably give him pretend virgins for the rest of his life as thanks for introducing Luis to her “girls.” Clarice was always properly grateful, he reflected fondly. Goddamn, life was suddenly interesting again.

All the way home, Dykstra fantasized about the evening ahead—he and Luis Domingo . . . and Clarice's women. By the time he walked through the front door of his tastefully furnished house, he'd bedded all of Clarice's nubile virgins, leaving his leftovers for the rest of the town's patrons. In his mind he was a happy man. What a story he'd have for Regan when next they met!

At the thought of his old friend, Dykstra turned unexpectedly moody. He remembered how badly Regan had wanted to capture the Sea Siren—so badly, he hadn't been able to think about anything else. Dykstra had never understood Regan's decision to let her go. When pressed, Regan had merely said that one could not hold a spirit captive. There had been something in the man's eyes that had puzzled him at the time, something he'd mulled over for many years. It wasn't like Regan to let anything get away from him if he wanted it, and he'd wanted the Siren so badly, he would have killed anyone who stood in his way.

The bottle of rum on Dykstra's desk beckoned. He was on his third glass when he slapped at his unruly gray hair. “Oh, God, no,” he muttered as he sorted feverishly through the papers in his desk. Somewhere he had a miniature of Regan and Sirena. Hell, he didn't need the rendering to remember what Sirena looked like; all he had to do was look at their daughter. He threw his hands in the air and yowled his outrage.

They were close, he and Regan, the way men are who boast about their conquests. Regan would never have let the Siren out of his clutches, which could mean only one thing:
Regan had had the Siren in his clutches all along.
Goddamn, why hadn't he ever figured it out before?

Sirena van der Rhys was the Sea Siren! She retired from the sea when Regan married her. What a stupid clod he was! How Regan and Sirena must have laughed at him—no wonder Regan had never endorsed him for the governorship.

But if Regan's wife was the infamous Sea Siren, what did it mean? he asked himself, trying to think everything through clearly. For one thing, he allowed, the story about Fury going into the convent could all be a ruse. Regan and Sirena were too protective of Fury; they would never have allowed their only daughter to come all the way to Batavia to enter a convent alone.

“Son of a bitch!” Dykstra bellowed suddenly.
Fury
was the mysterious legend come to life—a true reincarnation of the infamous Sea Siren. How could he have been so blind?

Dykstra fingered the rum bottle clumsily, then set it aside. He'd had more than enough to drink. Domingo would be arriving soon for dinner, and he'd need his wits about him when entertaining the Spaniard. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the evening ahead. Should he apprise Domingo of what he suspected or keep his thoughts to himself until they could be proved? Everything came down to proof, and there
was
some sort of proof, something he couldn't remember, something Regan had told him . . . what was it? Damn the rum, he wasn't thinking clearly! Coffee. He still had time for plenty of thick, black coffee.

Dykstra struggled to his feet. The proof . . . what was the proof? he persisted, his pulses pounding with the effort. Perhaps if he stopped thinking about it, it would come to him. He made his way to the kitchen and ordered coffee from his startled housekeeper. “Fetch it to my bedroom. I'll take it while I change for dinner,” he growled over his shoulder.

Relaxing in his bath, Dykstra forced his mind to blankness so he could restructure his thoughts. It wasn't the Siren's legs or her breasts, although Regan had gone on and on about how beautiful they were. So what in the goddamn hell was the proof?

Dykstra's hand slapped at the soapy water. The scar!
That's
what it was. Of course, how stupid of him to forget. Regan had said he'd observed the vicious, wicked scar when he fought with the Siren. It ran the entire length of her arm, and that's why she always wore long sleeves. Indeed, he could not remember a single instance when he'd seen Sirena's bare arms. All her gowns bore long sleeves. Dykstra's bushy brows furrowed. Fury's arms, too, had been covered the day she'd appeared in the Dutch East India offices. Was it part of their plan? he wondered.

“What
plan?” he asked himself, disgusted. He could sit in his bath all night and still be wondering come dawn. Maybe Regan had nothing to do with any of this. Maybe it was all Sirena. The possibilities seemed endless.

Goddamn it, he realized sourly, now he had a pounding headache. If he didn't get rid of it, he'd have a miserable time at Clarice's.

Luis sensed a change in the Dutchman when he arrived. He was pensive and morose, then almost surly whenever he spoke. Never one to let things simmer if he could bring matters to a boil, he spoke harshly. “Are you having second thoughts about hiring me, Dykstra?”

Dykstra looked up, startled. “Not at all. I simply have a damnable headache. I've been realizing that my—my superiors will no doubt pressure me for a swift resolution to this . . . this wretched business, and with my retirement imminent, and the governorship opening up . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “Well, you may just imagine how this is going to look on my record. It has nothing to do with you, Domingo. My offer still stands.”

Luis nodded. “As does my acceptance.”

“Excellent. In that case,” Dykstra continued, “there's something else I wanted to tell you—a piece of information I'd forgotten until today. The Sea Siren has this scar . . . Regan told me he'd actually seen it once. Apparently it runs the entire length of her right arm. That will be all the proof you'll need in verifying . . . when you capture the witch.”

It was almost midnight when the two men left Dykstra's home and headed for Clarice's establishment.

“You flatter me, Mynheer Dykstra, by bringing this dashing young man to my house,” whispered Clarice, a ravishing, voluptuous woman of indeterminate age. She turned to Luis with a wide smile. “Obviously, señor, you are a man of culture who knows his own mind. I like that. How may I be of service?”

Luis threw back his head and laughed, a deep, resonant sound. “I'd like a very long-legged young lady whose breasts are no more than a handful,” he drawled. “Eyes as blue as sapphires and hair as black as sin. A pretty smile. A woman versed in
all
the ways of pleasuring a man. And when she grows tired, have five or six others form a line outside my door. Any questions, madam?”

Clarice shook her head. “I believe we can accommodate you, señor. I knew a man like you once with appetites much the same as yours. He never left this house unsatisfied.”

“We'll see,” Luis called over his shoulder as he made his way to the second floor.

“My God, where did you find this one?” Clarice hissed to Dykstra the instant the Spaniard was out of hearing. “He cannot be serious in his request—I need all my girls; tonight is one of the busiest nights of the week. I'm going to charge him by the hour,” she hissed again. “Who will pay for this night of debauchery, Mynheer?”