Paradise Burning (19 page)

Are you nuts?
screamed her common sense.
Alligators. Water moccasins
. For all Mandy knew,
there was probably a Calusa Nessie lurking in the black water
below.

Although the eastern shore was now being
haloed with iridescent light, she didn’t pause her rowing to look.
The last thirty feet she navigated by sound—the gulping, wracking
sobs of a woman pouring the agony of her soul into the cold damp
gloom of night. Appalled, Mandy threw the anchor line into the
exposed roots of the overhanging bush and scrambled up the
bank.

The figure on the tree trunk was huddled
under a blanket that enveloped her from head to toe, but Mandy had
no doubt it was Nadya. There was nothing to do but sit down, wrap
her arms around the Russian girl, and hang on tight. They sat,
clutching each other for warmth and comfort, while pearl gray
streaked the slate of low-lying clouds and Nadya’s sobs finally
diminished to an occasional sniff. Mandy fished in her pockets
until she found a tissue, which she offered to her mysterious
acquaintance.

“
Oh, good Lord!” Mandy gasped as she
got a clear look at Nadya’s face.

“
Yuri,” the Russian girl said with a
shrug as if a single name explained the blue-black bruise spreading
across one side of her tear-blotched face. “Karim . . .” The
Russian girl frowned, then pantomimed a roundhouse
punch.

“
Karim hit you,” Mandy
interpreted.

“
No, no, no!
Yuri . . .” Nadya punched her fist toward her own
chin.

“
Yuri hit you.”

“
Da!
Karim . .
.” Nadya pantomimed a second blow, this one from the opposite
direction.

“
Karim hit Yuri?”

“
Ah,
da!
” Nadya actually managed a watery
smile.

Mandy’s guilt blossomed into what felt like
personal responsibility for the sins of the world. She’d messed up
big time. Her fears allayed by Garrett Whitlaw’s reasonable
explanation about the house on the far side of the river, she’d
given up too easily. Trusted logic over gut-feelings. Typical
Amanda Armitage—logic trumping what really mattered. And Nadya had
suffered for it.

“
Karim hit Yuri because Yuri hit you?”
Mandy punctuated her question with appropriate air punches to make
sure Nadya understood.

“
Da
,” Nadya
confirmed. The Russian sprite pushed back the blanket. The silver
light of dawn was kind to her desolate face, softening the
spreading bruise, the tear-ravaged features. The huge blue eyes
tugged at Mandy’s heart. Dear Lord, Mandy wondered, what strange
working of the universe had brought her out of a sound sleep,
prompted her to bring the tape recorder? Whatever was going on here
on the far side of the river, an explanation was sorely
needed.

Mandy took the recorder out of its
case. The Russian girl’s eyes widened. “
Gavarityeh feesyo
,” Mandy commanded. “Everything.
You understand? Who you are, where you came from, why you’re here.
You understand what I’m saying?”

A spark of hope leaped into the Russian
woman’s eyes. “Yes,” she said in decisive English that cut like a
whip through the crisp morning air. “I understand.”

Mandy started the tape. Nadya Semyonova drew
a quivering breath and began to speak.

Major Karim Shirazi leaned his right shoulder
against the support beam at the top of the back porch steps,
drawing in deep breaths of cool night air, free from the heavy
scent of liquor, tobacco smoke, and sex. Behind him, the house was
silent, the last customers departed, the girls—all but Nadya—tucked
up in their beds, alone. Misha had returned to his high-priced
waterfront condo in Manatee Bay, and Yuri . . . Yuri was possibly
easing his pain with vodka. No matter. He was safely shut up
inside.

Karim stood straight, stretched his arms
through the crisp night air toward the blaze of stars overhead.
They were not as clear as in the sky of his homeland, but they were
the same stars. He reveled in the cool winter night. This was one
of the few times he’d felt truly comfortable since coming to this
abominable place of steaming jungles and creatures that went bump
in the night.

Almost . . . almost he felt like a man
again.

Enough to make him generous. He would give
Nadya all the time she wanted at her precious river. Even a woman
had a right to lick her wounds in private. Later—Karim smiled into
the darkness—later he would be most happy to offer his own brand of
comfort.

A stupid pig, Yuri. Damaging the merchandise,
keeping Nadya from working. He’d put the fear of Allah into the
miserable Russian pig, but the truth was . . . Karim peered into
the darkness toward the path to the river. Not a sign of the slim
white wraith that was Nadya. His Nadya. The truth was, if he had
not hit Yuri, he would have killed the customer who started it all
by demanding perversions Nadya was not willing to perform. Sick,
very sick. But Misha must never know of his sympathy for the little
Russian, or Misha would kill him. Right after killing Nadya.

If they give trouble, beat them first, Misha
said of the girls in Karim’s charge. If necessary, chop off their
heads. That worked well in Europe. Why not here? The well-dressed,
middle-aged Russian gangster had sketched a careless wave of his
hand. Finding replacements was easy, he said. No need to tolerate
disobedience.

Things were not going as he had hoped, Karim
admitted to the blackness around him. He had been a good officer.
Strong and proud. Daring. Ruthlessly efficient. Yet when he had
been offered an opportunity to come to America and make more money
than he had ever thought of seeing in his lifetime, he had leaped
at it, had he not? And become a keeper of women.

The job did not sit well with him. Not well
at all.

Karim frowned. She had been a long time, his
Nadya. After all, there was nothing at the clearing along the river
but a dock far downstream and an occasional glimpse of a trailer
peeking through the trees. No, trailer was not right. What was it
the Americans called them? Ah, yes, re-cre-a-tional vehicles. Karim
savored the English words. Recreational vehicles. A good thing,
houses that traveled. If a man had one, it might be possible to
lose himself in the vastness that was the United States of America.
He did, after all, have a legitimate passport. That and a great
deal of cash had been the price of his soul. His pride. And
self-respect.

To come to the United States, he had stooped
about as far as a man could go. And yet, it was not enough. Somehow
he must find a way to stay in this country. Not easy, not easy at
all. If caught at what he was doing, the best he could hope for was
a one-way ticket home. And a possible death sentence once he got
there. So something must be done. And soon. A pity the Americans
couldn’t stop staring at him. When he went to town, they either
glared in open hostility or shocked suspicion, as if he had “Al
Queda” painted on his forehead or was just descended from a
spaceship. Truly, he must be the only Middle-Eastern male in Golden
Beach.

If they only knew. One wife—one American
wife—was all Karim Shirazi asked from life. He had spent most of
his early adult years fighting Iran’s mortal enemy, that mother of
monsters Iraq, and now he wished only to live out his days in
peace. Far from the firepower of whatever war was raging.

Far from Nadya?

What use did he have for a Russian whore?

Softly, feelingly, he swore. She was special,
his Nadya. In spite of everything, she maintained her dignity. She
was intelligent, kind-hearted. A mother to the other girls.

And, sometimes, even to him. Her jailer.

But sentiment was for children and fools. To
survive, he must remain the soldier, untainted by emotion.
Powerful. Unswerving. Ruthless. His goal like a bright star before
him.

America awaited him. And he would have
it.

He’d heard there were many Persians in Los
Angeles, men and women his own age who were a second generation of
the old regime driven out by the Ayatollahs. (May Allah grant rest
to minds that saw evil everywhere.)

If he could find his way there . . .

Once again, Karim glanced at the path to the
river. He could see it now, a dark line penetrating a shadowed
jungle, set against a sky that was no longer night. Wrapped in this
special moment of peace, he watched as pink streaks added color to
the eastern sky, as the charcoal jungle turned green and glints of
sunlight sparkled off the morning dew. At moments like this he
could almost like this godforsaken place.

Karim swore softly. Nadya was stretching his
patience. Too independent, his little one. The Russians were fools
to give their women so much freedom. Though he had heard it was
mostly lip-service. Russian women were free to work as long as they
did all the housework and shopping, cooked the meals, and cared for
the children. So perhaps Russian men were not such fools after
all.

Frowning, Karim shifted his weight to his
other foot, pressing his back instead of his shoulder against the
hard wood of the porch column. Although Nadya never gave herself to
him in anything but resignation, she talked to him sometimes, lying
warm and still in his arms, after sex. The men of her village had
not appreciated her. They deserved to lose such a pearl. For the
moment he, Karim Shirazi, would accept the gifts Allah had given.
He had a passport, a job which paid a great deal of money. Hope for
the future.

And Nadya Semyonova.

He should not have doubts. He was a very
lucky man.

“
You’ve got to be kidding,” Mandy
breathed as Peter turned the car into an opening in an impressive
stone wall, drove down a private palm-lined road and pulled up
before a five-car garage. “Claire and Brad live
here
?”

“
Palm Court,” Peter confirmed. “One of
Golden Beach’s oldest and most impressive mansions. Inherited from
the grandmother who also left Brad the land where he’s building
Amber Run.”

“
Lucky Brad,” Mandy murmured, her gaze
moving from the flower-bordered walkway up three stories of
coral-pink stucco to a red tile roof.

Set on a promontory that jutted out into
Golden Beach’s upper bay, Palm Court boasted a pool and a private
dock. Even in the short time she’d been in Golden Beach, Mandy had
learned to recognize the architecture—Mediterranean Revival, a
style that now defined Central Florida’s Gulf Coast.

“
Is that a
banyan
?” Mandy asked, gaping at a huge tree
trailing vine-like brown strands from its many octopus-like
branches.

“
Banyans, cane palms, oleanders,
bougainvilleas. You name it, Palm Court’s got it. Brad works hard
to keep it up.”

“
You might have warned me.”

“
And spoiled the surprise?” Peter
grinned. “Never guessed your precious Bubba spends his nights in a
castle, did you?”

“
Okay, so I’m impressed,” Mandy
conceded.

Peter shut off the idling engine that had
been keeping them cool while they took in the expanse of Palm
Court. “There’s a formal entrance around front, but like most
waterfront homes, everybody just traipses in the kitchen door. Come
on, Mouse, let’s find out what your Nadya said.”

Wow!
was the
only word that fit the moment, Mandy thought, as a smiling Brad
Blue led them through a state-of-the-art kitchen and across a room
big enough to make the resident grand piano look like furniture for
a doll’s house. It was once a courtyard, Brad explained, before his
grandmother Whitlaw added a roof. He and Claire had their wedding
reception here.

Brad continued on into the less intimidating
space of the formal living room, which was, Mandy guessed, a mere
thirty by eighteen with a staircase on the long wall at the east
end of the room. The furniture was elegant but comfortable. Lived
in. The Palm Court inhabited by the Blue family was a home, not a
show place.

“
Welcome!” Claire called as she came
down the stairs. “Bubba’s tucked up, and Jamie’s in his room,
hopefully reading instead of video-gaming, but . . .” She grinned
and shrugged. “Please sit. Frankly, I’m as eager as Brad to hear
your what your Russian girl had to say, but hospitality first. What
can we get you to drink?”

After settling next to Peter on one of a pair
of matching sofas, Mandy set her frosty gin and tonic on the coffee
table and opened the recorder case. For Brad’s benefit she briefly
summarized her encounters with Nadya Semyonova, including Garrett
Whitlaw’s information about the death of Wade Whitlaw’s old foreman
and the subsequent rental of the line shack by his relatives. She
ended with her meeting with Nadya that morning—the tears, the
bruise, and, finally, the recording.

As Mandy talked, Brad’s handsome face
altered, from the subtle rise of one blond eyebrow to a frown that
creased his forehead. Nadya’s bruise captured his complete
attention and, suddenly, the developer of Amber Run transformed
into a professional tracker who had caught the scent of violence,
intrigue, and crime.

At that moment Mandy realized most of the
rumors about Brad Blue could be true. The man was scary. But so was
Peter. And her father. She was accustomed to people who had
experienced violence up close and personal. It was simply . . .
odd, unearthing such a feral response in a man building houses in a
Florida backwater like Golden Beach.