Dead Asleep (11 page)

“So I've been told,” Emma said.

“By your girlfriends?”

“By the men whose feet
I
have swept off the ground.” Carrow raised his eyebrows and then laughed in a low, whiskey-laden tone.

“I do like your style, Ms. Caldridge.”

“And I do love your singing, Mr. Carrow.”

Carrow moved his head closer to hers and Emma remained still, waiting.

“Are we headed to the beach?” Warner's voice came from somewhere behind Carrow. He stayed where he was, moving no closer.

“We're all going swimming. Care to join?” he said after a moment.

“I should go home,” Emma said. “I have to work tomorrow.”

Carrow nodded. He straightened and held a hand out to Emma. She reached out and a beach towel fell off her shoulders. She looked down at it in surprise.

“Oz covered you while you slept,” Carrow said. She moved the towel to the side and clasped his hand. He pulled her to a standing position. Warner was nearby, patiently waiting for Carrow, and Emma felt a pang of remorse, though for what, she wasn't sure.

“Thanks for the concert,” Emma said.

“You're welcome. Oz told me that you two know each other well. Please feel free to join us at the studio. But first, we'll head to the blue holes.”

“What time?” Emma asked.

“Ten. That's practically dawn by my standards. I've already had Marwell outfit the boat with everything we need. Meet me at the dock?”

“I'll be there,” Emma said.

Chapter 17

S
tromeyer huddled in the corner of the alley watching the casino's back door. Dumpsters lined the wall and the occasional rat ran back and forth along the edge. The smell of rotting garbage wafted to her every few minutes, carried on the night air, but she thought it was surprisingly contained considering the amount of waste the casino produced.

She'd driven the boat back to St. Martin the day after she'd spoken to Banner. Now she was dressed in her usual dark clothes and covered her hair with a hood from a zip up sweatshirt. She had her thin ski mask in her pocket, which she would put on in an instant if she needed to apprehend anyone.

Kemmer was in the casino playing craps. His driver and car idled at the alley's entrance waiting for him to reappear. Weeks of surveillance had revealed that he generally held a monthly meeting behind the casino. Most of the local authorities believed Kemmer to be a low level, fairly benign criminal. Though wanted in the Netherlands for tax evasion, his usual activities involved a modest gun-running operation and an equally modest escort service. The escort service was an offshoot of his legal prostitution business in Amsterdam, and was well run and unremarkable. He took credit cards for payment, and the Antilles pocketed a portion of the sales in tax. Though the local island tax officials suspected that he didn't pay all the tax he should have, what he did pay was substantial enough to mollify them. Paying companies on small islands usually were given some deference, because they had many options to choose from in the Caribbean and no island wanted to lose a business to their neighbor.

The door swung open and Kemmer stepped out. Stromeyer sat up straighter and pressed her back against the wall. She was hidden in a small space between two Dumpsters. She could see Kemmer from her position and was hidden from anyone who entered the alley.

A man walked past the Dumpster, heading toward Kemmer. He held a dark green duffel in his left hand and kept his right in his pocket, an ominous sign. Stromeyer took out her own gun. Kemmer and the man met in the middle of the alley.

“Did you bring a sample?” Kemmer asked.

The man nodded and held up the bag. He had his back to Stromeyer, which was a shame because she would have liked to see his face. The man put the duffel on the ground and crouched next to it as he unzipped it. He removed an Uzi submachine gun and held it out to Kemmer.

“No, no, I want to see the bullets. Can you show them to me?”

“Yes.” The man reached into the duffel and removed a small bag that resembled a case for a laptop computer. “Here they are.” He held something out in his palm. Stromeyer leaned forward as well but couldn't see what the man was holding. She felt excitement bubbling up in her. She'd observed several of Kemmer's weapon purchases in this alley and all were unremarkable. The usual crate of assault weapons and rocket propelled grenades changed hands with a wad of cash. She would pass on the information to the interested local authorities and they would move in, or not, as the case might be. This transaction, though, looked as though it would be different. Kemmer leaned forward to see whatever was in the man's palm.

“Do they fit into any gun?” he asked. The man nodded.

“Any gun that can fire their size, yes.”

“What's the misfire rate? I've heard it's significant.”

The man shrugged. “About thirty percent.”

Kemmer's mouth fell open. Stromeyer could relate, because her own mouth was open. A thirty percent misfire rate was totally unacceptable. She certainly hoped Kemmer wasn't fool enough to buy a bullet that failed as often as that.

“That's outrageous. Awful, actually,” Kemmer said. “I don't think any of my clients would accept such a huge failure rate.”

The man shrugged. “They have to understand that they're buying an entirely new, cutting-edge product. Some kinks are to be expected. It's like buying the first model year of a new car.”

Stromeyer's bent left knee felt tight, but she ignored it. The man's statement was exactly what she wanted to hear. The months of careful surveillance were finally yielding a meeting that might be what she'd been hoping for. She watched Kemmer frown at the man's analogy.

“Kinks, yes. Massive misfire, no. My clients need their weapons to work in all sorts of situations. They're often under fire themselves. That their gun won't work thirty times out of every hundred trigger pulls is like playing Russian roulette with their lives. You need to give me a discount.”

The man shook his head. “Not a chance. These are extremely expensive to make. They're designed for unique situations where complete anonymity is required. I have several customers lined up to buy them, and if you don't want to pay full freight there are others who will. It makes no difference to me.” He bent down and replaced what Stromeyer presumed was ammunition back in the duffel, zipped it, and picked it up off the ground. “Maybe next time, when I have something a bit more average, I'll call you.” The man turned and started walking away. Stromeyer saw his profile only. A strong, hooked nose and pointed chin.

“Wait,” Kemmer said. The man paused and looked back.

“Maybe you let me buy a few samples that I can take to my clients. Let them work with them. See if they like them. If they do, then perhaps we can arrange to buy some more.” Stromeyer thought Kemmer's suggestion sounded reasonable, given the product's defect rate. She was surprised to see the man once again shake his head.

“No. These are a limited edition. The materials to make them aren't readily available and are very expensive to obtain. That's another reason they're so costly. I can only sell them in specially prepared batches. This is only one batch. There are others at a different location. Once this batch is gone it will take almost three years to manufacture another.”

Kemmer seemed frustrated at the man's intransigence.

“Then give me twenty-four hours. Just long enough to get in touch with my clients and see what they're willing to pay given everything you've told me.”

“No. You buy them now. Immediate and verifiable wire transfer, or I go elsewhere.” Kemmer sighed.

“Then I'm sorry to say that we have no deal.” Kemmer looked dejected. Something about his reaction made her think that the objections he'd raised to the buy were only based in part on the defect rate. She wondered if he had the funds to complete an immediate wire transfer.

The man nodded once and continued walking away. Kemmer spun in the other direction, opened the door to his waiting car and climbed into the rear seat. The car made a three-point turn and drove away.

Stromeyer rose, straightening her stiff left knee, and worked her way down the alley as quietly as she could. At the end, she peered around the corner in time to see the arms dealer closing the trunk of a new, dark-colored sedan. He entered the driver's side and put the car in motion, turning right onto the main road that ringed St. Martin.

Stromeyer's own motorcycle was parked in the same lot but farther from the overhead light. She jogged to it, put on her helmet with the full face mask, and kicked the cycle into life. A minute after the man's car had disappeared into the darkness she was on the road and speeding along.

She caught up with him at the second light. She didn't bother to memorize the plate, because the car appeared to be a standard, midsize rental. She doubted that the man had either paid for it or registered it in his real name. He took off again and she followed. It seemed he was headed to the area with both a dock and the airport, where she had been with Sumner just the night before.

Indeed, the car turned into the airport parking lot. She hung back as he maneuvered into a premium spot close to the main entrance. Then he got out, retrieved the laptop bag and slammed the trunk closed, leaving the duffel. Cycling into the lot, Stromeyer stopped at the front row of cars, to the far left of the parked vehicle. She watched the man stroll to the airport entrance and wasn't surprised to see him hand off the car keys in a brush-by technique to another man heading toward him. She locked the cycle and walked rapidly toward the entrance, keeping her face turned slightly away as the accomplice with the car keys opened the sedan's door and got in.

The Princess Juliana Airport in St. Martin had two levels of security. The first required visitors to show a passport and boarding pass to a customs agent before heading to the main security line. Stromeyer strained to see the man among the crowd.

Three minutes later she was in the terminal watching the arms dealer walk through the security line. He placed the laptop bag on the conveyor belt and it sailed through the metal detecting machine. The man sailed through as well. Five minutes after putting his shoes back on he was strolling toward the gates with the bag in his hand.

Stromeyer jogged back out of the terminal and ran to the motorcycle. She kicked it into gear and headed along the frontage road to a place on a slight rise where she could see the runways. She pulled out her binoculars and waited, sitting on the cycle, scanning the runway.

Forty-five minutes later her patience was rewarded when she saw the man with the laptop strolling toward a small plane. She noted the number and called Banner.

“Does Sumner have access to an ATD plane? Fast?”

“I think so, why?”

“I need him to intercept a flight.” She rattled off the plane's identifiers.

“He's in St. Barths. I'll call him now. Any idea which way the plane is headed?”

“No, but I'm right here. I can head back and talk to the airport authorities.”

“Don't bother. The ATD guys probably have access to all of that information online. Let me call Sumner. Hold tight.”

Stromeyer waited. She kept her binoculars on the small plane and the phone to her ear. The plane's props started. It spun in a slow circle and headed toward a runway. Banner's voice came back as it lifted off.

“It's headed to Terra Cay,” he said.

Chapter 18

E
mma got home and went in search of a snack. While Carrow's staff had served small appetizers, she hadn't eaten a meal. She headed to the kitchen to check the warming drawer. She often worked late and Johnson would leave a meal for her. There was a chicken pot pie and a kiwi cheesecake. When she finished eating she made the rounds, checking the doors and windows. She found the door that connected a small mud-room to the laundry room unlocked and secured it before heading to the master bedroom to sleep.

She rose from a deep sleep to a lighter, dream state to the sweet smell of decay. She opened her eyes and saw a creature that was preparing to attack her. The dark shadow hung above her, enveloping her in icy cold. The floating figure reached for her throat with long fingers—each one dripping with seaweed. She had a vague image of a head, of long, muscled arms and clawlike feet. Its breath held the scent of decay she'd smelled. The carbon monoxide detector started to wail and the beast opened its mouth and displayed a jagged row of teeth as it howled along with the alarm.

The slowly turning bamboo ceiling fan above the bed allowed Emma to breathe despite the gas-filled room. The rotating fan sent enough air her way to keep her alive. The alarm shrieked at an ear-piercing pitch, and she tried to force her muscles to function. Her head swam and her breath came in labored gasps. She jerked to the side as the beast lowered its jaws toward her face and she kept rolling to the edge of the mattress. The draped mosquito netting covering her, she fell straight down to the jute rug below, still wrapped in the mesh. The room careened around her, whipping in a blur as vertigo took over. The dizziness was so extreme that she felt her stomach clench in preparation for the dry heaves. She turned her head and gasped.

There was another creature under the bed. It stared back at her through malevolent red eyes.

She forced herself to crawl away, fighting her way out of the gauze, dragging herself across the rug, and when that ended, across the wooden floor. The beast's howls rose when it became tangled in the netting, and she heard a ripping sound as it clawed its way out. The room spun and her right calf twisted into a tight cramp. She groaned from the pain and pitched sideways, but her own voice sounded muffled.

She'd thrown the windows open earlier, to allow air to circulate while she slept, and now half rose and stumbled to them, plucking at the slatted wooden blinds, trying to unlock them and swing them wide to get to the outside and fresh air. She pulled the stops on the screen and shoved it open from the bottom. She smelled the decaying thing behind her, and its frigid aura hit her back as she crawled through the opening, snagging the edge of her cotton night shirt on the wooden sill and turning her body to clamber out. Dropping onto the ground, swaying and still disoriented, she crumpled to the grass and closed her eyes. While her brain told her to move, her body wanted to sleep.

Don't sleep, don't sleep,
she told herself. The beast would be upon her. Her body, though, wouldn't respond. It was as if she'd been drugged. She kept her eyes on the window, watching. After a few moments, when the beast didn't appear, she felt her lids begin to lower. I'll just rest for a moment, she thought.

Her calf muscle twisted in a sudden charlie horse that made her sit straight up and brought tears to her eyes. She punched at it in a desperate attempt to get it to ease up as her foot curled. She hammered at it again, and when it subsided, fell backward and lay there, panting.

Did carbon monoxide poisoning cause seizures? She shook her head and tried to focus as her lids lowered again.

Emma woke to the sound of a mosquito buzzing in her ear. She opened her eyes to see the insect hovering next to her right temple. It was just a shadow in the wan light of the moon, flitting in and out of her peripheral vision. She glanced at the sky but saw only inky black dotted with stars, which meant that she hadn't been unconscious for long. The carbon monoxide detector's piercing shriek was gone but her head still pounded, possibly from the monoxide gas. Her vision was clear, though her dizziness remained. She rose.

The back lawn was quiet. Stars twinkled overhead. Emma leaned into the window and peered at her bed. The mosquito netting was bunched on the left side. She assumed that she'd pulled it in that direction when she rolled away from the beast. The room was quiet. Peaceful.

The doors were locked, so the only way back into the villa was to crawl through the window. Emma hauled herself over the sill but left the screen ajar and the shutters open, in case she needed to make another hasty exit. She moved toward the lamp on the nightstand, keeping her back against the wall and her eyes on the bed. She staggered with both exhaustion and vertigo. The shadows dissipated when she flicked on the light.

She reached for the netting and spread it wide. It was intact. No holes where the beast had ripped through it. She took a deep breath and lowered herself to the floor. The back of her neck tingled in fear, but she ignored it and peered under the frame. Nothing hid there.

She looked up at the ceiling and scanned the corners. The room had no carbon monoxide detector. And now she remembered that the villa had no furnace. There was no need for one. Terra Cay villas needed air-conditioning, not heating. The ringing she'd heard must have been in her own ears. The beast in her mind. Her stomach twisted into a vicious knot, bending her forward with the pain.

Not carbon monoxide. Poison.

She got up and swayed to the bedroom door, heading to the kitchen, breathing in irregular gasps as she made her way down the hall. She kept her shoulder against the wall, using it as a support to stay upright. Another cramp hit her stomach and she bent forward. She felt her body heat climbing with fever.
Keep moving,
she told herself.

Emma stepped into the kitchen, the tile floor a shock of cold on the soles of her feet. She made it to the pantry, opened the door, and reached to the top shelf to grab a white plastic bin with a red first aid symbol on it. When she had it, she staggered backward and fell against the sink. She flipped the bin open and saw the dark brown bottle of Ipecac syrup.

Thank God, she thought, twisted off the top and swallowed a mouthful.

The heaving started within seconds. She vomited over and over into the sink, her diaphragm hammering into her spine with each convulsion. She'd never realized just how powerful her stomach muscles were until that moment.

When it was over she lowered herself to the floor and sat with her back against the cabinets. The dizziness was gone, the muscle seizures as well. She reached over her head to the edge of the sink and pulled herself upright, then managed to remove a large glass mug out of the cabinet next to the sink and fill it with water. She drank the entire glass, filled it again, and drank again.

Having thrown the remnants of the chicken pie and cheesecake into the garbage, she now pulled them back out and placed them into two plastic sandwich bags. While it was possible that the food at Carrow's villa had been tampered with, she doubted that was the case. The more likely scenario was that her late night snack was tainted.

Done securing the samples, Emma filled a pitcher with yet more water and refilled the glass. While she was drinking she heard the woman's low laugh. She glanced through the kitchen's sliding glass door that led to the backyard and spotted the woman silhouetted against one of the trunks at the corner of the lawn where the tree line began. The woman's figure began to undulate and then disappeared. Another hallucination, Emma thought. Her hands were clammy and her heart still raced with adrenaline.

She called Island Security and Randiger answered.

“I'm sorry to call so late, but I think someone broke into the villa again,” she said. She recounted the hallucination and the possibility of tainted food, and told him that she'd found the laundry room door unlocked. She heard him give a heavy sigh.

“Do you think you can make it to tomorrow? I've got three people who have fallen asleep and I'm dealing with their hysterical relatives.”

“Carrow's villa again?”

“No. Three members of the staff of another villa. I've called the National Health Service in Nassau, Bahamas, in the hopes that they'll send a doctor. Honestly, this keeps up and we're going to have to issue a travel warning. I don't have to tell you how much trouble that would be for us.”

“I'm headed out to the blue holes tomorrow,” she said. “I'll bring the samples to you before I leave. Perhaps you'll have the doctor take them to a lab?”

“Will do.” He rang off.

Emma checked the doors and windows once again, went into her room, locked the wooden shutters and grabbed her pistol out of the armoire. She rearranged the mosquito netting and shoved the gun under the pillow. While the dizziness had disappeared completely, her lethargy remained. She fell asleep within minutes.