Saint (28 page)

She would do it. And she would remember.

* * * * *

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Hocksteder screamed at Benito through the phone. “I told you to keep a low
profile and what do you do? Blow up a frigging mountaintop in Kentucky! Let it
go! The Carvania woman can’t hurt us now, even if she shows up to testify.”

“You labor under the impression that you
hold all the cards and give all the orders. You do not.” Benito held out his wineglass
for the servant to refill. “I recently discovered an undercover cop in my
ranks. What do you suppose he was doing here? Hoping to catch me in an illegal
transaction, perhaps? Did you send one of your goons to spy on me in my
confinement?”

“I didn’t send anyone in there. The guy was
probably some local looking to make a bust and jump-start his career.”

“Let us hope so, for your sake. If I
thought you were trying to double-cross me after all the taxes I’ve paid to be
a resident of this great country, I’d be severely disappointed. Never forget I
can pull you down with me. There’s no way I can be connected to the unfortunate
incident in Kentucky. It’s your own conscience that makes you so sure I am the
culprit, but since I have made no move from my home without the presence of my
lawyer, I hardly see how it can be a problem. In America a man is innocent
until proven guilty, is he not?”

“The woman isn’t important any longer,”
Hocksteder ground out. “I’ve taken care of everything. The prosecution has a
weak case at best. Skaggs’ activities are under suspicion and what evidence
hasn’t been ruled out or labeled circumstantial is highly questionable as legal
at this point. By the time this case gets to trial her credibility will be
shattered. Let her come in. Let her testify. It can only add to the illusion
she’s targeted you in a personal vendetta. You, Benito Juarez, businessman of
the year. If she disappears, you take the chance suspicions will mount. Don’t
forget the press tries every case in public and you need all the sympathy you
can get.”

Benito swirled the crimson liquid around
the glass. “You tend to your end of things and I’ll tend to mine.”

He snapped the phone shut, pursing his lips
pensively. “Diego, have you found anyone or anything that might lead to that
roster?”

“I sacked her house again like you said.
Still nothing. She was careful to clean out everything. No past due bills or
credit card receipts, not even a picture album or an address book. The magazine
office where she worked was no help either. From what I can gather she sent
most of her work in using a laptop or by mailing a disc. There’s nothing, not
even a notation about the roster.”

Benito’s fist hit the table. “Don’t tell me
again there is nothing! There is always something! Find it. Tell that high-priced
clerk to do a bank search and check to see if she’s used any credit cards
within the last few weeks. Start with the hotels within a hundred-mile radius
of that Kentucky mountain. And if I don’t have something concrete in two days’
time, one of you is going to die.”

* * * * *

Tears streamed down Nina’s face as she
prepared to dispose of Jared Dempsy. “I’m so sorry, Jared,” she whispered,
twisting the specially crafted carving knife in her palm. “But you shouldn’t
have lied to Benito. You shouldn’t have lied to me. I trusted you. You were my
friend.”

Her tears dried with the first slice into
his skin. Blood pooled around the serrated edge of the blade, but immediately
clotted. His body lay still and at an unnatural angle on the damp earthen floor.
It was so much more exciting when her victim was alive. Jared wouldn’t cry out.
He wouldn’t flinch away from the pain. He wouldn’t experience the power she
wielded.

But Carolyn had. Carolyn had witnessed her
power. It wasn’t enough for the wife of that Godless mercenary to take Manuel
Juarez between her
gringa
thighs—she had wanted Benito as well. But Carolyn’s proud stubbornness turned
to whimpering soon enough when Nina finally visited her in the underground
chamber.

Oh, she had watched and listened to Carolyn
tell first Manuel, then Benito, to go to hell. Manuel Juarez had beaten the
woman to within an inch of her life. Then the woman changed suddenly, giving
herself willingly to Manuel. But Nina’s father soon tired of trying to pry the
mercenary’s whereabouts from her. He had simply wanted to kill her.

She should have taken the knife to Carolyn
then. Then, before Benito convinced their father to let him try. Benito had
given Carolyn
her
pleasure. He had tortured the woman, then petted her, soothing her with
beautiful words as he pumped in and out lovingly, while she, Nina, had watched
from her hiding place.

But she was the only one shrewd enough to
figure out Carolyn’s secret. Knew what it was that she protected with the
giving of her body to the Juarez men. The woman wasn’t stupid, she knew if she
gave up such information she would surely die. Along with her unborn child. So
Carolyn waited and hoped and prayed—when she thought she was alone—for her
husband to come and save her and their child.

And Nina had taken it away.

At sixteen she was already an expert with
the knife, taught by a master carver in the village. There was nothing she
couldn’t do with it. It was a living, breathing thing in her hand. By then she
had been sharing Benito’s bed for five years and she wasn’t about to give him
up to Carolyn or any other woman. Benito was her lover, her brother, her
confessor, her god. He protected her from the cruelty of Manuel, their father.
He let her touch him, stroke him and he held her tightly to him at night,
whispering how he would always love her and care for her. That he would take
her away from Manuel’s cold hatred and marry her because she was part of him.
She understood him.

Benito gave her pleasure and, in turn,
taught her how to give pleasure. He taught her how to use her mouth, her hands,
her body. And he showed her how pain could produce euphoria when mixed with
sensuality. She knew a man’s erotic zones as well as a woman’s. She knew how to
hold them on the edge ’til they screamed and convulsed.

Nina’s shining moment came when she learned
to do these things with the knife.

It had taken only a short time to befriend
the chained woman. Starved for some small bit of genuine kindness, her hope
fading, Carolyn had only been suspicious of Nina’s late-night visits for the
first few days. After all, didn’t Nina know what it was like to be trapped in a
never-ending hell? A shy sixteen-year-old girl under the iron fist of her
abusive father wasn’t so hard to understand. A few succulent bits of fruit
smuggled in beneath her dress for the hungry woman and Carolyn began to
convince herself that Nina truly wanted to help.

Nina promised to send for her husband, who
would come and rescue her. And after another week of Benito’s tortuous
lovemaking, coupled with whispered confidences from the shy, abused Venezuelan
girl, Carolyn relented and told her what she wanted to know. For how could Nina
reach her husband if he was still at the base and not at home?

Ah, it had been so easy. Nina was able to
use the same stone to kill both birds. The woman witnessed her power and the
gringa
bitch’s soldier husband
annihilated Manuel Juarez. She had kept her word, after all. Carolyn did return
home to her husband. In little pieces. Through the mail. And she made sure when
the soldier received the last package, the one with his unborn child inside, it
had Manuel Juarez’s name written all over it. The last box—that was what
brought Armageddon to the Juarez compound, making Benito hers once again.

Now another woman threatened her world.
Maria Carvania. The journalist had to surface at some point and when she did
Nina would be there.

* * * * *

“That’s the biggest pair of tits I’ve ever
seen.” Francis stared in awe at the slinky, writhing woman who humped the pole
onstage. “And I’ve seen plenty.”

The trio grabbed a seat at one of the
tables and ordered a round of drinks.

“Look Francis, maybe this isn’t such a good
idea.”

“What do you want me to do, Gabe, order a
Shirley Temple? A sober man in a strip joint is bound to draw more attention
than a drunk.”

“Joan’s here,” was Gabe’s argument. “It isn’t
like we’re going to go unnoticed. Let’s just get it done.”

“Joan, would you please tell the MADD
poster boy here, that I’m perfectly capable of handling myself after a few
drinks?” Francis smiled at the skimpily clad waitress as she delivered the
whiskey and tipped her generously, waiting until she was out of earshot to
continue. “Besides, it’s better to wait and get a good look at this Lolita. I
don’t want to tip her off by asking questions, she might get suspicious and
run. I was going to let Joan scramble the bartender’s brains, but it’s probably
better to follow her home instead. She might need a little persuading.”

Gabe threw back his whiskey and poured
another. “You just want to watch her dance.”

“That too. This is my kinda place. Loud and
stocked full of women and booze. Drink up Joan, you look plumb nervous.”
Francis pushed the whiskey toward Joan and swiveled in his seat to get a better
view as the next dancer paraded out onstage.

“Francis.”

“I see her, Joan.” Francis paused to look
heavenward for whatever help might be available. “Lord, please do not let this
be Lolita or Gabe will have to be tranquilized.”

The petite Asian girl, probably no more
than nineteen, was dressed as a schoolgirl. Short plaid skirt, white blouse,
frilly socks and patent-leather shoes. Gabe’s eyes glazed over.

God was merciful to Francis’ plea, in that
the girl’s stage name wasn’t Lolita. It was Muffy—and she had the muff to prove
it. The girl enticed one of the patrons nearest to the stage to stand so she
could take off his belt. Then she lifted her plaid skirt and presented him with
her lacy thonged buttocks, slapping the leather against her taut cheeks
lightly. Gabe nearly came in his chair.

Francis and Joan exchanged knowing glances.

“Okay fine,” Francis relented. “We need
Gabe sane. Let’s go talk to the bartender.” He lingered near the bar where Joan
motioned for one of the bartenders. It wasn’t that Joan needed help, but the
giant’s idea of small talk consisted of few words.

“Lolita,” Joan grunted to the stocky
bartender with more grease in his pitiful ponytail than hair. “Where can I find
her?”

It was a one-time opportunity. But
apparently the bartender wasn’t a sensible man. “Who’s asking?”

Toady, according to his nameplate, never
received an answer. Nor was he able to utter another word after Joan’s big hand
closed around his throat.

“Just point.”

Francis decided it was time to intervene.
Some people just didn’t get Joan right off. He leaned against the bar casually,
smiling at the red-faced Toady, whose feet were dangling several inches from
the matted floor. “He’s her biggest fan, you know.”

Toady gestured impotently. Francis didn’t
worry overmuch about anyone making too big a deal of the wheezing and choking noises
emanating from the bartender’s throat. In a dive like this people tended to
mind their own business. If it were a choice between watching some babe take
off her clothes or watching some sleazy bartender choke, he would pick the babe
like any self-respecting lecher should.

Gabe, who had moved to take up space beside
one of the nearby concrete columns lining the bar area, was one to shoot first
and ask questions later when he was sexually frustrated. At the moment he wasn’t
only frustrated, he was practically foaming at the mouth. Which meant if one of
the bouncers, or any other prick, took it into their heads to interfere, it
would be the last time they stuck their nose into a stranger’s business.

Francis poured himself another drink from
an untended bottle nearby and downed it. “I can’t understand a word you’re
saying, Toady. I can call you Toady, can’t I? That’s a hell of a name, ain’t
it, Joan? If I were you, Toady, I’d just point. It’s nothing to worry about
really. We’re old friends of Lolita’s. Just thought we’d look her up while we’re
in town.”

Toady clung onto Joan’s arm, trying to ease
the killing grip on his neck enough to get air. His eyes swung desperately
around the room, seeking help from nearby patrons, but none was forthcoming.
The few customers sitting at the bar merely looked on uncomfortably, then
lowered their heads or wandered off. They wanted no part in whatever trouble
was brewing. Francis couldn’t blame them. After all, it wasn’t everyday people
witnessed the raw strength of Joan of Arc.

“You know what I think, Joan? I think Toady
doesn’t want to tell you where Lolita is because you’re black. That’s
discrimination. I’ve drank after you many a time and never once gotten cooties.
Toady, how long has it been since you’ve been to confession?”

Joan squeezed tighter, cutting off the
trickle of oxygen that was keeping the hunk of meat in his hand from completely
passing out. Just before Toady lost consciousness, the vice grip on his
windpipe eased.

“Just so you’ll know,” Francis leaned closer
to whisper conspiratorially to the dazed man, “Joan’s been to prison. And
frankly, there’s not much about repeating the experience that scares him. So,
it’s really up to you whether you cooperate or get your neck snapped.
Personally, I’d go with the former, but hey, this is America and everyone is
free to make their own choices.”