A Wanted Woman Part 13

"It looks like you broke every bone in the old man's body."

"He raped his own grandchild at least two times. Made the little girl give him oral. How do you molest your twelve-year-old granddaughter and walk the streets like it was nothing? How are you almost seventy and you molested your daughter years ago, now you violate her daughter too? He did it to at least three other girls. His reign of terror started back in the eighties. He's done. At least. What the f.u.c.k is wrong with people? He could have gone up by the Garrison or Nelson Street or some f.u.c.king place and paid for a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b. Girls would have been happy to service his old a.s.s for next to nothing. His disgusting a.s.s could've had a girl and been done with it."

She slammed the trunk.

She said, "This girl was lucky. Another preteen was raped, killed, and thrown in a gully like a dog. That one was raped by her grandfather too. He's been remanded. Lucky for him."

I didn't care. I'd been on the run, needed sleep, and didn't care.

Any other day, just not that day.

She said, "Was going to arrange it so his body washed up on Welches Beach. In case you need to know, that's the best way to get rid of a body around here, feed it to the sea. She spits it out and vomits it back on the land bloated after the fish have had a meal. Much bodies wash up on the beaches in the islands. The sea kills all evidence. Too late to feed the fish now."

"Much bodies."

"Yeah. Much bodies."

"Okay. Much bodies."

We dumped the hot ride. I dumped the black wig, put a scarf around my bald head. While she distracted security I stole a blue Kia. I pulled away and picked her up as I exited the car park. She settled in. I put on Wayfarers and took to the uneven road that went through Vauxhall and pa.s.sed the entrance to the Globe Drive-In.

The volatile woman next to me said, "Forgot to ask. Need anything special?"

"A new wig."

"Besides that."

"Roads are narrow here. People stop to chat and hold up traffic and block the streets."

"Highways are smoother."

"No emergency lanes. No bike lanes. Barely room for two cars to pa.s.s. A traffic accident could shut a road down. Might be impossible to get away if I were in a chase."

"You plan on being in a chase?"

"I didn't plan on being here. I need a motorcycle for a few days. Would prefer to be in a muscle car, but looking at this infrastructure, my best bet will be moving on two wheels."

"You want one of those numbers I just ran off the road?"

I said, "A real motorcycle. Something that can outrun how you drive."

We kept it moving past sugarcane fields, eventually came up on Foursquare Rum Distillery, Emerald City coming up fast, then the last roundabout before the safe house.

Her phone pinged. I cringed. Took a deep breath through clenched teeth.

I was tense. Having to go to a new place, on a different island, alone, a place I'd never seen before in my life, a landma.s.s too close to Trinidad, it had me tense, anxious, in a bad mood. Barbados could have been Beverly Hills and it still would have been the worst place on the f.u.c.kin' planet.

Before the roundabout at Six Roads, she asked, "Want to have some more fun?"

"Not really into having fun, but okay. Sure. Need to make the time pa.s.s."

"Turn around. I'm not ready to go home and put my husband to bed."

"Kind of early for that."

"Never too early. Never the wrong time for that."

I cruised down a narrow strip of gravel road situated between two rows of sugarcane, kicked up dust and rock for about nine hundred meters until we came upon the area for archery and skeet shooting, the starting point of a country club nestled in over seventy acres, a club that was a restored World War II building. Had no idea where I was, only that she said she was taking me to Kendal Sporting in Carrington, parish of St. Philip, up the road from the safe house. It looked like the perfect place to kill. I turned off the main road onto what a sign said was Kendal Road, an area that used to be a plantation but now was a lime spot, a place for business meetings, corporate functions, retreats, and weddings.

Only a couple of people were at the bar, only three people in the pool. It was like we had gone to another island. A well-to-do island. She took me on a tour. Clubhouse, swimming pool, table tennis, billiards, darts, archery, and, most important, the gun ranges. Pistol. Shotgun.

She asked, "Any good with a bow and arrow?"

"I've trained with Old Man Reaper, but bullets move faster and reloading is quicker."

"I used one on a job. Used a compound. Hit the target from forty yards."

"Center of ma.s.s?"

"Neck."

"Lucky shot."

"I was aiming for his neck. Went straight through his esophagus."

"Why not a gun with a silencer?"

"Muzzle fire gives away your position."

"Big contract?"

"Small to the world, big to the island. Issues down in the Deacons Farm Housing area."

"Farmers?"

"Not farmers. It's the projects."

"What was that all about?"

"Politics. Money for votes."

"They buy votes down here under the table?"

"They buy votes in public. Some Bajans stand in line and wait to get paid before they vote, then take photos of their ballots to prove they earned their bribe. One hundred people at a time were waiting on money right outside of Deacons Primary School at the voting place."

"Bold. How much were they paying?"

"Three hundred Bajan bucks a vote."

"A Bajan buck is worth fifty cents in the US. Not much to sell out."

"Some don't make that much a week. People showed up in droves, in packed minibuses. Guy on the other side who ran a clean campaign and lost, well, he's not so clean anymore."

"Sounds like someone is out for revenge."

"It was ugly. Other things happened. Personal things. Just waiting on the call."

"Call from?"

"Same people I worked for earlier today. The government."

"What, are you some West Indian version of the CIA?"

"Not the government, but someone in the government who makes things happen to keep the island looking good. People who want to make sure the island thrives by any means necessary. If someone damages their image or hurts tourism, they call. If a politician needs a favor, I handle it."

While adjusting the scarf on my bald head, I said, "Worst-case scenario, since my money is low, can I get work down here?"

"Oh, there is an open contract in Trinidad."

"Not interested in anything to do with Trinidad."

"It's an easy one. Girl was murdered, a brutal murder down on some place called Incinerator Road. Old guy beat her, burned her with cigarettes. Guy cut her fingers off. d.a.m.n near cut her head off."

"Anywhere but Trinidad. Can't travel. I don't have a good pa.s.sport."

"How did you get here?"

"People I work for pulled it, told me that it's not any good from here on out."

"Why in the h.e.l.l would they do that?"

"Don't know."

"Are they sending you a new one?"

"I hope to get one soon. If you can get me local action, I'd be grateful."

"Will see what I can do. Might be small local jobs."

"All money adds up. A dollar is made of pennies, nickels, and dimes."

"Anything else?"

"Antsy. Wish I had a local boyfriend to bide the time and get the edge off."

"Could make it happen tonight. Give me two hours. What are you into?"

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm not that kind of girl."

We went to the indoor pistol range, loaded up, then we fired off six hundred rounds.

I said, "You're a GDI."

"My handle is Nemesis Adrasteia."

"Definitely the name of a vigilante."

"In Greek mythology, Nemesis was the spirit of divine retribution against those who succ.u.mb to arrogance before the G.o.ds. 'Adrasteia' means 'the inescapable.' 'Nemesis' means 'to give what is due.' Nemesis Adrasteia. I give what is due. What is due is inescapable. What should I call you?"

"Reaper."

"That's it?"

"Just call me Reaper."

"My sperm donor calls himself Reaper too."

I told her my real name.

I asked, "Should I call you Nemesis?"

"Petrichor is my real name. Haven't said that name in forever."

I paused. "Wow."

"What?"

"My mother had said that Petrichor would've been my name. If Old Man Reaper had stayed long enough to sign the birth certificate, that was what he would've named me."

"So, you're telling me that I have your name?"

"I was going to be named Petrichor. Old Man Reaper took one look at me, made accusations, and left, so the last thing my mother was going to do was give me the name he had picked out."

"Why did your mother pick your name, if one had been chosen?"

"My mother named me what Old Man Reaper said I looked like when I was pulled from between her legs. She did that to spite him. She named me Goldilocks to spite him."

"Petrichor is my true name, sorry about that."

"Nothing to be sorry about. It's just a name. Everybody has one."

"Here my name is Christine Braithwaite."

"Christine. It means 'follower of Christ.'"

"Your mom named you Goldilocks because she was p.i.s.sed at my sperm donor?"

"Sure did, Petrichor. Sure did. She named me after a chick who did a B&E and stole porridge. I was destined to be a bad girl. My name means 'person with golden hair who steals.'"