The Ninth Day (39 page)

“He’s a trespasser. And so are you,” Emma said. Her anger fizzed at the deliberate destruction of her work. She leveled a stare at the woman. So here’s the source of the voodoo offering, she thought.

The woman moved toward Emma, walking in an exaggerated, swaying motion. “
You
are the outsider on this island. We belong here. Leave. And take your bottles and experiments with you.”

Emma glanced at the man, but he remained still, not moving a muscle. His stillness was strange and Emma felt a frisson of a chill run through her. She wished that she had thought to bring her cell phone. She was loath to leave these two even for the time it would take to retrieve it. If she did, she was afraid they would destroy even more.

“You don’t belong here either. This island has no history of voodoo,” Emma said. “I saw the mess you made in the entrance hall. I’ll be sure to let Island Security know about your breaking and entering.”

The woman chuckled, but the noise sounded evil, wicked. “Island Security knows better than to interfere with a Bokor Priestess.”

Emma was glad that the man stayed frozen during this exchange. She didn’t want to grapple with both and the machete in his hand made him the more dangerous of the two. She took a step toward the woman.

“But
I
don’t know better, and I’m telling you one more time to leave. Now. And take your companion and ridiculous talk of zombies with you.” The woman raised an eyebrow.

“Ahh, the scientist in you doesn’t believe? Be warned. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here. With one word from me he’ll cut you to ribbons. There’s no negotiating with him.”

“I don’t recall offering any negotiation. I said leave. Both of you.” Emma kept the man in her peripheral vision. With the machete in his hand he didn’t need to be a zombie to hurt her. Flesh and blood human would be enough.

The woman flicked her hand. “Kill her,” she said.

The man burst into motion. He raised the machete and sprinted to her, closing the distance between them in seconds. His hair hung in thick rasta braids down his back and his face was contorted in a strange spasm. His eyes pointed straight to the sky even as he ran toward her swinging his machete. It was as if his body was responding to a force outside of his mind and even less controlled by it. His tongue whipped right and left, adding to the horrific sight. He started screaming in a high pitched wail.

Emma spun and started to run toward the villa. She heard the priestess’s harsh laugh and the man’s pounding feet on the driveway behind her. She had the fleeting thought that the man was insane and if he were to catch her he would show her no mercy.

She made it to the French doors and wrenched them open, tumbling through the entrance and slamming them behind her. She turned and flipped the deadbolt just as he crashed into the glass with his hands. The machete’s blade made a clanging sound on the pane.

He stood there, breathing heavy, his weirdly canted eyes still staring upward. She crossed to the phone on located on the kitchen counter, dialed the emergency number and glanced back.

He was gone.

C
ameron Sumner sat at the blackjack table and watched the croupier deal out the cards. The woman to his left watched as well. She had long, blond hair, a full figure, pretty face with brown eyes, and wore no wedding ring. He estimated her age at about twenty-eight. It was unusual that such a young woman played the Casinos alone. Perhaps she had a gambling problem, he thought, but rejected the thought as soon as he had it. She didn’t appear desperate or stressed at all, and wasn’t sweating with the thrill of the game, as most chronic gamblers did. Sumner had noticed that whatever table he joined, she inevitably appeared. She didn’t speak to him, but played her hand with intelligence and calm, hitting when the odds were against the dealer and sticking when they weren’t. She won three out of four hands.

He kept playing, scratching the table slightly with his cards to indicate to the croupier that he wanted a hit, making a small wave to stick and watched the woman do the same. When the cocktail waitress appeared Sumner ordered a Maker’s Mark whiskey, the woman seltzer water with lemon. It was at that moment that he knew she was staking him out. She was on duty and not drinking.

He completed the hand, tipped the croupier, took his chips, and pushed away from the table. The Maker’s Mark came with him to the roulette wheel where he played his favorite number: 32.

Twenty minutes later the blond joined a nearby wheel. Close enough to see him, but not at the same table. She would move closer, he was sure of it. After twenty minutes more she strolled over and took the empty seat next to him. He smiled inwardly. After a few moments she made an attempt to reach across the roulette wheel to place her chips on a number located at the far side.

“Excuse me,” she said as she leaned over him. He smelled her perfume and was treated to a full view of her chest in her low, but not too low, blouse.

“Of course,” he said. He shifted his chair back to allow her access. The wheel turned and landed on 32. The croupier doled out Sumner’s winnings and pushed them across the felt table top with his stick.

Sumner was on the small island of St. Maartin on business. As a supervisor in the Air Tunnel Denial program, he flew intercept planes for the United States Southern Hemisphere Drug Defense program. Generally he and his crew operated out of Key West, but the recent upsurge in the areas of the Caribbean and West Indies islands had altered the ATD’s focus. Sumner’s job was to locate suspicious flights, usually flying under radar, warn them against crossing into the United States’ territories, and, once they did, arrest or intercept the planes before they landed. He was also charged with investigating the origin of the flights and putting an end to the drug operation.

He figured the woman could either be an undercover security officer hired by the casino, a member of the small island’s police force undercover, or a foil hired by the drug cartel to compromise or eliminate him before he had a chance to shut down the operation. He hoped she wasn’t part of the cartel, but he thought that to be the most likely scenario.

He won two rounds in a row, decided that was the best he would do against the house, and once again collected his chips. He swallowed the last of the whiskey before strolling to the window to cash out. After pocketing his winnings he headed to the exit. The blond woman intercepted him.

“Leaving already?” Her voice was low and husky. She stood in front of him holding a stack of chips in one hand and her drink in the other.

He nodded. “Quitting while I’m ahead.”

“The house isn’t going to like that.” She smiled at him.

“It’s such a small amount, I doubt they’ll care.”

“Maybe you should stay and have a drink in the bar. It’s quite early by island standards.” Her words were light but her gaze pointed. Sumner had the fleeting thought that perhaps she was a call girl working the casino, except for what he saw in her eyes. Sumner thought he read a warning in them.

“Do you work for the casino?”

She looked surprised and shook her head. “Not at all. What gave you that impression?”

“You seem reluctant to let me leave.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just thinking that you’ll enjoy yourself more here than at home.”

“I have a good book.” She looked a bit stung and he said, “But I thank you for your concern. I’ll enjoy the quiet.”

She shrugged. “I hope you do. Goodbye.” She turned and walked back into the maze of tables.

The balmy air smelled of salt water and engine grease, a combination that wafted off a nearby pier. He crawled into the small rental car and started back home. He drove carefully, keeping with the flow of traffic on the narrow road with one lane in either direction.

His rental was actually the beach house for a much larger estate. St. Maartin’s crime rate had been escalating in recent years, and as a result the estate was gated, with three large dogs that roamed the grounds. Sumner hit the button and watched behind him in the rearview mirror while he waited for the gate to open. In the distance he heard the dogs barking. He’d have a few minutes if he was lucky to drive through before they swarmed over the road. The gate swung closed behind him just as the dogs appeared. They were in full howl and the largest, an Akita with an impressive ruff around his neck, began snapping at the car tires. Sumner proceeded ahead at a slow pace, using the car bumper to nudge the dogs out of the way. One, a large Rhodesian ridgeback incongruously named Susie, put her paws on the drivers’ side window and peered in at him, her big nose sniffing at the glass. Her bark turned to a sound of welcome once she recognized Sumner.

The big house sat on the bluff above with lights blazing, and even at the distance of four hundred yards Sumner could hear the beat of heavy dance music as the inhabitants partied. He drove through the palm trees on either side and down the winding road to the beach. His house was considered a small guest house despite its three bedrooms, dedicated pool, and location on the water. He killed the engine and stepped out of the car.

He was alone. The dogs had followed him halfway down before heading back to the entrance. A sliver of moonlight shot across the gently moving waves and he stood a moment, enjoying the sound of them lapping against the shore. He heard a padding noise and Susie loped into view, her long tail wagging as she approached. She pushed her head against his knee in greeting. He reached down to scratch her ears before turning to the door. He was three steps away from the entrance when Susie began to growl.

He paused, straining his ears to pick up any hint of what Susie had noticed. He focused his senses around the heavy bass still pounding from the house above. Hearing nothing else he took another step toward the door. Susie’s growls grew louder and she began to pace in front of him. He kept moving forward and the dog subsided, walking alongside him. When they reached the entrance Susie began to sniff at it in loud inhalations, her sides heaving as she did. She snorted and shook her head, stepping back.

Sumner paused again. The back of his neck tingled and he wondered if something, or someone, was waiting for him on the other side of the panel. He reversed away. The beach house had a second, rarely-used rear door off the laundry room that led onto the backyard where a clothesline stretched. Sumner headed that way, keeping his head down and moving with as much silence as he could. Susie stayed with him. He reached the door and slid his key into the lock. It turned with a snick and he slipped inside. Susie pushed in after him, knocking the door wider with her big body. He grabbed her collar to hold her in place.

He decided against turning on a light as he worked his way down the hall, holding Susie’s collar. Her nails clicked against the floor and for a moment he wished he’d left her outside, except he had no weapon other than Susie. In full howl and enraged she made a formidable sight. He peered into the darkened living area. A far bank of windows faced the ocean, taking full advantage of the view. To his left was the front door.

A glance at it told him everything he needed to know. A tangle of wires ran from what looked like a car battery to the door handle. An LED display glowed red. Sumner couldn’t see what it was and he didn’t bother to stay. He spun around, dragging Susie with him, and ran back the way he came. His heart beat in a crazy rhythm and his hand on the leather collar was suddenly slick with sweat. He had made it into the laundry room and had managed to slam the door closed when the bomb exploded.

About the Author

J
AMIE
F
REVELETTI
is a runner and a former trial lawyer. The author of the international bestsellers
Running from the Devil
and
Running Dark
, she lives with her family in Chicago, Illinois.

www.jamiefreveletti.com

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Resounding praise

for the previous award-winning thrillers by

JAMIE FREVELETTI

“Just terrific—full of thrills and tradecraft, pace and peril. . . . Outstanding.”

Lee Child,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Worth Dying For

“While women are well-represented in crime fiction as cops, private detectives or amateurs, the female adventure story often gets short shrift. Jamie Freveletti is changing that. . . . Freveletti combines realistic scenes with believable characters in a gripping, timely plot.”

Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“A breathless, hair-raising read, one of the most gripping thrillers I’ve read in a long, long time.”

Tess Gerritsen,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Ice Cold

“Harrowing. . . . Fast-paced . . . and the ‘ripped from the headlines’ angle adds further frisson.”