Warriors (37 page)

“Just a movie prop, don’t worry. Shooting a sequel of
Miami Vice
for Warner Brothers. I play the black guy,” Stoke said, and winked at the guy in an overtly fey way. Just messing with the cat.

When he climbed back in the car, he told Harry about what he’d said to the harbormaster, knowing it was Brock’s kind of humor.

Harry laughed.

There was a large gay population in the Conch Republic, as everyone knows, and leave it to Harry Brock to have something to say about it. He piped up from the way backseat where Hawke had stuck him with the equipment, while he rode up front with Stoke.

Brock said, “So I’m on the phone with the police chief of Key West last week, right? Giving him a heads-up that I’m going to be down here on a matter of national security, right? And that a very special government-equipped Contender 34 is going to be showing up here at the marina, right, not to get his tighty-whiteys all in an uproar about it.”

“Yeah?” Stoke said, not wanting to encourage him.

“Yeah. And the chief says to me, ‘Agent Brock, I don’t want to alarm you, but the crime rate down here on Key West has skyrocketed.’ So I say, ‘Really, Chief, I didn’t know you had a lot of crime down there.’ “

“And then what, Harry?”

“Well, then, the chief he waits a beat and then he says, ‘Oh, yeah. It’s brutal. Last six months alone, the number of drive-by spankings has gone through the roof.’ ”

Harry laughed. He always laughed at his own jokes.

Neither Stoke nor Hawke laughed, Stoke because he’d heard Harry tell that one so many times before, and Hawke because, in truth, he didn’t really get it, but didn’t want to admit it.

“What?” Harry said. “That’s not funny? Guys? Really? C’mon.”

“Shut up, Harry,” Stoke said, beating Hawke to the punch. “Look, there she is. Sharkey’s boat.”

Stoke said, “I told the guy I hired to deliver her to load her up with fuel, ice, and Cuban sandwiches. SmartWater and Diet Coke for me; Kalik, the Bahamas’ finest beer, for you two. It’s only about three hours to No Name Key from here. We should get there by five, if the weather holds.”

NOAA weather radio was reporting a low-pressure front moving up from Cuba. The leading edge wasn’t supposed to hit the Keys until around midnight, but tropical forecasts were often iffy. Navigating in an area known as the Ragged Keys was something Stoke knew a lot about, though. During his SEAL days, his squad had trained around here for a few months. “Heat ’n’ Skeet,” his knucklebusters had called the bug-infested swamps back in the day.

They hauled all their crap aboard and stowed it below. Harry cast off the lines while Stoke cranked her up and backed out of the slip. Harry felt the chilly vibe and knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He went below to properly organize and stow the equipment.

A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER,
Stoke was gunning the
Miss Maria
across the shallow saw grass flats, grabbing a hard northeasterly angle toward No Name Key.

Hawke had taken his shirt off and was sitting on the stern in a pair of baggy khaki shorts, sipping an ice-cold bottle of Kalik and soaking up the warm Florida rays. He seemed happy to be out of cold and rainy Olde England for a while and Stoke didn’t blame him. He was glad to be back in sunny South Florida himself.

“There it is,” Stoke said, pointing over at the little bump that was No Name Key in the distance. “Scene of the crime.”

Hawke stood up and came forward to stand beside Stoke at the helm console. He remembered this place, all of it. He stared at the island, then looked at Stoke for a long moment before he spoke.

“Yeah. We saw it once before when I was down here in Islamorada, recuperating with a beautiful woman who, like that island over there, shall remain nameless.”

“I remember that. I took you to see it, remember? Little skiff I rented. You wanted to see where the man who killed your wife on the steps of the church had died.”

“Yeah. Quicksand.”

“Straight to hell, boss.”

Stoke eased the throttles back, and the bow settled down. The high-powered boat slipped through the razor-sharp saw grass and into the outskirts of the mangrove swamps that guarded the island. The swamps were full of twisty-turny channels, snaking this way and that, with no rhyme or reason, some leading to open water, some dead ends. Nothing on the charts, either. If a person didn’t know exactly where he was headed? He didn’t get there.

“Hang on, boss, here we go!” Stoke said with a smile.

Suddenly Stoke leaned on the throttles as they broke through into open water again, a broad patch, sparkling in the sunshine. Stoke remembered the little bay and hung a tight right and blasted through a fairly wide opening in the mangroves on the far side of the bay, where there was still plenty of deep water. The bow came up, and a very narrow channel loomed ahead. Stoke, full throttle. Hawke looked at the skipper with alarm.

“Do you have any idea where we’re headed?”

“Hell yeah. You choose the wrong channel back in here? You never find your way out. I’m serious. Find your bones, that’s all, picked clean by buzzards.”

“Why don’t you just use the GPS?”

“I am a GPS,” Stoke said with a laugh.

C
H A P T E R
  5 1

N
evermore was a rather large, rambling cottage, Sabrina saw. In the middle of nowhere, it was precariously perched out at the far end of the meandering wooden boardwalk rambling across a rocky promontory, the outcropping of rock a jutting sheaf of granite dominating the crashing sea far below.

Two stories high, the house had great gabled windows, immensely thick grey stone walls, with a dark-tiled roof surmounting weathered black shutters and doors. Chimneys jutted up everywhere. Adjacent and beyond were sheer rock cliffs, a tangle of fields, and a stand of hazels. Brambles and briar roses on the back side of the house were flanked by a flint lane that wound its way into the distance, bordering a barley field on the left. The flints were knobbly and bonelike.

Snow-white seabirds tumbled and dove from the skies everywhere one looked.

Lorelei had not exaggerated the charm or the pictorial grandeur of the seaside setting.
Breathtaking, actually,
Sabrina thought. There was a biting tingle in her nostrils, the invigorating whiff of sea brine on the air. Invigorating. Restorative. Life itself.

She was suddenly glad she’d come. She paused for a moment, extricated herself from her friend’s sky blue Morris Minor, and studied the oddly named Nevermore.

It was, she considered, a lonely house. Yes, she thought with a cold shiver, but perhaps a good lonely, not a sad one. She was happy to be here near the sea, glad she’d let her old friend talk her into suddenly changing her plans for the holiday weekend. This was far more adventure than a tiny single-cot room under the eaves of the Lygon Arms.

She inhaled, letting the brisk air fill her lungs. Grabbing her Union Jack overnight bag from the Morris’s rear seat, she said, “Thanks awfully for inviting me. It is rather lovely here, isn’t it? It looks like a David Lean film, actually.”

“It’s too divine for words. So. Let’s change into something warm and go for a long walk down on the beach. Quite bracing in this weather.”

“Lead on, Lady Lorelei, I’m right behind you.”

They traversed the narrow wooden cliff walk along the rocks, the sea crashing directly, far below, and to either side. It was more than a little frightening, but at last they came to the cottage. Lorelei mounted the wide stone steps and pushed through the heavy wooden door, waving her inside. They entered a dim foyer with only a pair of candles, flickering yellow in sconces high on the dark-paneled walls. There was a smell of wax furniture polish and old wood and something left too long on the stove.

It was unexpectedly eerie inside the cottage, and Sabrina shivered, pulling her wrap close round her shoulders.

At that moment a figure stepped forward out of the shadows, tall and imperious. It was a woman, a woman with wide dark eyes, heavily made-up, and a gleaming black helmet of hair done up with ivory combs. For some unknown reason, the woman’s sudden movement caused Sabrina to take an involuntary intake of breath and a step backward.

“You startled me,” Sabrina said.

The woman in the shadows was silent.

Lorelei saw her perplexed expression, grabbed her hand, and pulled her forward, saying, “Oh! Look who’s here!”

“Who?” Sabrina managed.

“This, dear Sabrina, is my very good friend Chyna Moon. Proprietress and owner of this little bungalow by the sea. Chyna, won’t you say hello to one of my oldest and dearest friends in all the world? May I present Miss Sabrina Churchill.”

“Hullo,” the Oriental woman said, in a deep, yet very fluty, upper-crusty British accent. “Welcome to Nevermore.”

“Nevermore. What a lovely name for a cottage.” Sabrina tried for a smile.

“Yes. Isn’t it, dear? Poetic.”

“So lovely to meet you,” Sabrina said, taking another deep breath. She was feeling a bit dizzy. She thought the tall woman was smiling at her, amused at something she’d said or done . . . but . . .

“You must be quite exhausted after such a long drive, dear. Won’t you come into my library?” she said smoothly.

“Said the spider to the fly,” Lorelei whispered to Sabrina.

“I heard that!”

There was a very brief flash of red anger in the older woman’s eyes. She wasn’t used to being the object of sarcasm, obviously.

“Behave yourself, Lorelei,” she said, softening her tone. “Now. Come along, Sabrina, dear, I’ve a lovely fire going. Take the chill off, I should think. Lorelei, do be a good girl and fetch us something to drink, won’t you? A nice chilled wine, perhaps. Yes. The Krug Rosé would be nice. We’ll be in the library. Follow me, Sabrina.”

Sabrina hung back a second and caught Lorelei’s sleeve. “What was that all about?”

“It’s all an act. She wants to be the dragon lady. Silly, I know.”

“Weird.”

“Mmm.”

“Are you coming?” Chyna said from the doorway.

Lorelei laughed for no apparent reason and said, “Okay. You two chat. I’m going down to the cellar, but I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare talk about me while I’m gone! Either of you!”

Lorelei was laughing gaily, sailing off down a long, dark, and vaulted hallway.

The elegant Asian woman extended her long, slender hand once more, the golden charms on her bracelets tinkling as she did.

“Come, my dear. Follow me.”

C
H A P T E R
  5 2

T
he lead mullioned windows in the Nevermore library were shot through with a gauzy light from the sea, and a faint blush of roses quavered beyond the windowpanes. The watery sunshine fell softly into the high-vaulted room, painting the faded rugs and raised wooden panels of the walls, highlighting the Old Master artworks, picking out the silver framed photographs, and lightly touching the darkly exotic face of the mistress of the house.

Chyna Moon.

Sabrina found her hostess posed regally beside the hearth. Her luxuriant body was sheathed in a tight silk brocade dress of jade green. Her long bare arm was draped along the marble mantel, and from her hand dangled a jeweled black cigarette holder with a cigarette wreathed in smoke. The heavy choker of black pearls encircling a long sculpted neck above a thrusting white bosom set off her jet-black hair and extraordinarily dark and shining eyes.

She was herself a fascinating picture. Alluring, even, with her lipstick such a vibrant red, her eyes so luminous. Sabrina watched in something approaching awe as Chyna reached forward, beckoning, as if trying to gather the younger woman into her orbit, a stray planet to her sun.

“What an exquisite room,” Sabrina said.

“Isn’t it. Feel free to have a look round,” Chyna said, delicately sliding onto a pale yellow brocade chaise facing the fire. She lit the cigarette in her long ebony holder and expelled a thin stream of bluish smoke, watching her pretty young guest with undisguised fascination.

Sabrina moved about the room, looking at everything, the art, the marble figures of birds everywhere, the delicate objets d’art that seemed to have been flung about everywhere.
Deliberately casual,
she thought. So as to give the appearance of nonchalance. A film set.

“Well, well, well. Aren’t you the charming little creature,” Chyna Moon whispered with a wry smile.

She huffs and puffs like a dragon,
Sabrina thought,
and where there’s smoke . . .

“Oh,” she said, pausing at a round table near a window. “This is quite the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen . . .”

“What is, dear?”

It was a delicate gilded Victorian birdcage. It stood on a piecrust table covered with stacks of faded copies of
Country Life
magazine. The golden cage had been artfully designed to replicate the soaring structure of a great Chinese pagoda. And there was a bird inside!

She bent down and peered inside. A gleaming blackbird, it was, keenly intelligent eyes darting this way and that.

“It’s positively enchanting. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. What kind of bird is it?”

“A raven.”

“A raven,” she said, and bent down to study it. “Wherever does one find birds like this?”

“One doesn’t. One trains them.”

“Must be very rare, I suppose.”

“Not quite so rare as a red canary, perhaps, but still unusual. You see, Sabrina, I do love birds, all birds, but most especially black ones. Ravens. I breed them. And I train them, you see. To do all sorts of marvelous things. They are my children. My flock, as it were, and I am their shepherd.”

“How do you train them?”

She pulled a slender silver object suspended from a thin chain dangling deep within her perfumed bosom.
Shalimar
, Sabrina thought. The same scent favored by the Duchess of Kent.

“I use this little silver whistle, for one thing. They learn to obey any order at all on command.”

“Oh. How wonderful. Is that your hobby? Trained birds?”