Dragonfly Bones (23 page)

“I didn't know you spoke French,” I said.

“Don't speak it well, but I can understand it. A Frenchman brings home a friend for lunch. Arriving at his apartment, he
hears a slight noise in the bedroom, opens the door, and sees his wife in an incredible position with another man. ‘
Excusez moi
' the husband says, and closes the door. In his kitchen, while making some espresso, his friend congratulates the man on his excellent behavior. ‘That is the true Paris feeling of savoir faire,' he tells the man. ‘
Non, non,
' the husband says, and goes back to the bedroom, opens the door again, and says ‘
Continuez, s'il vous plait.
'”

“So what do we do now?” I said.

“Compliments of the inn, I'm going for a swim.”

We sat around the main pool, the sun low enough so that half the pool lay in shadows and the sun worshipers kept moving their chairs around to catch the last rays. An elderly couple finished their martinis, ordered two more, clinking the new glasses together in a silent toast.

A woman swam slow, steady laps, pausing at the far end of the pool to reach up to stroke the legs of a young bronzed man sitting on the curved edge. Neither of them paid us any attention. When the woman varied her path to swim closer to me, I saw she was at least in her sixties, her face surgically altered more than once, forehead smooth from Botox.

After one more round of martinis, glasses again raised in a toast, the old couple left. Finishing her last lap, the swimmer slowly rose from the pool by pulling herself up the man's body, eventually straddling his pelvis and facing him. Brittles moved his chair on the tiles, and they both looked startled by the slight screech, as though they thought they were entirely, absolutely alone.

“I think it's time to go find our room,” Brittles said.

T
amár welcomed the wait help and instructed them to set seven chairs at the table. In front of each chair, Tamár placed a leather-bound notepad, a gold Cross pen, and Steuben crystal ashtrays and flower holders, each holding a single white rose. At an old teak serving table, the wait staff carefully set up silver coffee jugs and a silver teapot. Dominique, the youngest of the wait staff, presented a silver tray with four different-patterned Limoges teacups for Tamár to inspect.

Each bedroom was furnished with thirties furniture. An oak trestle side table, a carved mesquite wall hanging, an ornate spindled headboard on the beds. Each room had cellophane-wrapped food baskets and freshly cut and arranged flowers in Hopi pottery vases. The bathrooms were also completely stocked with toiletries. Brand-new thick velour robes hung in the closets. The bedside tables held bottled water, small boxes of French chocolates, a silver ice bucket, and full-sized bottles of bourbon, scotch, and gin.

Satisfied, Tamár dismissed all the staff, sat nervously in the huge living room.

By midday, she'd left dozens of cell phone voice messages. None of the seven Circuit women had arrived. None of them answered her phone.

The front door opened. Irritated, ready to show anger, she rose, sat back down, and carefully composed herself. Expecting to see a friend, she gasped at the two people coming inside.

31

“S
orry. Expecting somebody? Gee. They won't be here. All of them were arrested at the Tucson airport when they got off the plane. So it's just us three chickens.”

“Do I know you?” Tamár said.

“Personally? No. But you've heard of both of us. My name is Nathan Brittles. This is Laura Winslow.”

Stunned, she stood up, staggered slightly, had to put one hand on her chair. I could see her mind spinning, spinning, spinning like mad, it was all over her face, trying to work out what we wanted, trying to figure how to get rid of us.

“Time for a little chat,” Brittles said.

To gain more time, Tamár went out to the pool, slumped into one of the aluminum-framed chairs. She lay her head back, carefully folded her hands on her lap, staring at the brilliant blue water. Composing herself, I thought. Preparing a story, trying to stay calm and look innocent. Brittles picked up an ashtray and flung it into the pool. She shivered at the splash, her hands clenching tighter, breasts rising and falling as she fought to keep her emotions under control. Just when she settled herself again, a tiny smile on her lips, Brittles kicked the chair, knocking it a few feet sideways. Her head slumped to her chest and she took an amazingly deep breath and let it out slowly. She rested one hand on the glass table,
pressing the palm down, lifting it again, studying the faint aura left behind. She abruptly rubbed the table clean, completely erasing the palm print. She sat forward, hands folded again in her lap.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me what's in it for me.”

“Hard time,” he answered. “In Perryville.”

“I'll tell you what I know. But I'll never testify. Put me in court, I'll swear you two bullied me, threatened me.”

“So talk,” Brittles said, promising her nothing. “Who else?”

“You know the others already,” Tamár said after a while. “Father Micah, from the camp. Anthony Galliano, my security chief. We've used a few people from around here, but none of them really knew what the other was doing.”

“The identity theft?” I asked.

“Just that. We needed identities for the girls who'd go out on the Circuit.”

“Why didn't you just forge them?” I said.

“We thought about that. At first.”

“Why did you kill those women? Just to get their identities?”

“I didn't kill anybody. That was Anthony's work.”

Tamár wanted to talk, probably believing that in talking she'd not get charged with murder. But I hardly trusted anything she said. Lies, persuasions, diversions, inaccuracies, nothing could be believed just because she'd said it. Tamár ran a lucrative, secretive, and hidden business. Tamár herself could be no different than that. What might appear to me to be a willing flexibility to give us the truth was in all probability her manipulation of what she thought we wanted to hear.

When Brittles asked her about Theresa Prejean, Tamár's face softened. Just for an instant, tears welling in her eyes. I thought she was going to tell us everything then, but the moment passed so quickly I wondered if I'd really even thought her vulnerable.

Halfway through another of her stories, Brittles stood and kicked her chair violently. It teetered on one side and Tamár stood up quickly to avoid falling over. Brittles lifted her body and threw her into the pool. She surfaced, treading water, moving to the center of the pool, turning in the water to track Brittles's movement as he walked around the edges of the pool every time she tried to move to a wall and climb out.

“You're not living on the edge anymore,” Brittles said to her. “
I
control the edges here.
I
control what happens. You're totally out of it now. You're so out of controlling things that you'll be bored for years, wanting to get back the edge, get back control. Right now you're figuring how you'll save yourself from the death house up at Florence. You think that because you never killed any of those women, because you never saw them killed, that you'll walk past the death house. You'll cheat the state out of executing you. Well, lady, I've seen a lot of people in the same situation you're in right at this moment. You're trying to be calm, trying to be in control, still trying to figure how to get the edge on me. But you're going to stay in that pool until you finally realize what's happening to you. Your scheme wasn't supposed to end this way. But you're the one who might drown. When I see that look of total desperation take over, then maybe I'll let you out.”

He flung one of the chairs into the pool, the backwash ripples washing over her face and filling her mouth with water. She sputtered, choking.

Defeated.

She nodded. Waited submissively for his approval.

Brittles waved her to the edge of the pool, gave her a hand up onto the tiles.

“I know what it's like,” he said gently. “You tell one lie, it's nothing. A white lie. You tell another. Finally you start linking all your lies together. Odd bits of truth in between, until you convince yourself that it doesn't matter.”

Dripping wet, shivering, nipples huge under her blouse because she was so cold. He found several towels, handed
them to her. Gently. She didn't even bother to rub herself dry, just draped the towels across her body.

“Galeano,” Brittles said.

“I'm cold.”

“You want another towel?”

“No. Antonio. He's cold. Lifeless. A robot with charm. Continually bored as he makes nice with expensive society women. Sits in the dark a lot. Just his cell phone blinking, no other lights. He makes calls all over South America.”

“So do you control him?” Brittles asked. “Or does he control you?”

Shuddering, Tamár drew one of the towels tight across her shoulders.

“Both,” she said finally. “He had his moments. I had mine. It was all about money. And I was his passport to some of the wealthiest people in Tucson.”

32

A
fter the Tucson police took Tamár away, we toured the house again, looking for anything. But other than the small address book in her purse, Tamár had brought nothing to the meeting.

Brittles flung himself onto one of the beds, beckoning me to join him.

“This is crazy,” I said. “What are you doing? I don't want to spend a night here. I want to get my daughter.”

We lay on the king-sized. All the curtains closed, the lights off, but sunlight filtering through the side window. Brittles nudged my left breast, but I sat on the edge of the bed, shaking my head no.

“The dining room opens at six,” he said. “We've still got half an hour.”

“No.” I started getting dressed. “I want to get my daughter.”

“Until we hear from Don, we can't do anything. Let's have a good meal.”

“I can't eat.”

The phone rang, a tinkling sound, and a red light blipped on and off with each separate ring. I pounced across the bed, picked up the phone.

“Get to Florence,” Don said, his voice shaking.

“What's happened?”

“The sponsors of all the camp residents have been notified. All the kids are being told the camp is closing and they have to leave. So far, everybody's contacted their sponsor except those boys and girls sponsored by you know who.”

“And my daughter?” I shouted. “What about her?”

“The Florence police have the camp sealed off. They're running a second check for…for your daughter.”

I slammed down the phone.

“What's wrong?” Brittles said.

“My daughter's disappeared.”

I rapidly finished dressing, got my computer bag, tugged his arm to hurry, but he fiddled with his boots.

“You're going to stay here,” he said finally.

I snatched up his car keys.

“You can stay if you want.”

The door half open, he braced a forearm against it, shut it while keeping me inside the room.

“Think about it,” he said. “Don't let your heart or gut do the thinking. Use your head. Remember, there's a chance—a small chance, but a chance—that this woman isn't really your daughter.”

“Let me
out
of here!” I shouted.

“I'll go right to the camp. Talk to some of the other residents, see if they remember anything that happened. I don't want you to be seen at that camp. The kid who tried to kill you may be there. I can handle him. You can't.”

“Watch me. You have no idea what I can do.”

“I'll tie you up if I have to,” he said, gripping me from behind in a bear hug.

“Goddam you!”

“Get it into your head. I'm driving up there by myself. I want you to stay here, stay by this phone that nobody knows about. I'll call you at twenty-minute intervals, and I'll have Don call you also. You two have done enough with your computers. Leave the rest of this to people who know how to deal with the problem.”

“I can deal with any problem,” I said.

“You're not leaving with me,” he said.

Okay,
I thought,
go ahead. I'll just rent a car, I'll pay the driver to go even faster than you do.
I slumped my body back against him, relaxing. He let go, tentatively, waiting for a trick, finally opening the door and standing out on the patio.

“I'll call every twenty minutes,” he said. “If you're not here, I'll get the Tucson Police Department quick. All right?”

“Every twenty minutes,” I said.

He kissed me, my lips clenched so rigid that he broke contact immediately. Going backward a few steps, he paused, then turned to run out to the car. Not even bothering to close the door, I went to the phone, called the front desk, and asked them to arrange for a car and driver for me as quickly as possible.

A minute after I hung up, somebody rapped on the open door.

“Oh,” I said to the tall man in the linen suit, “you must have been waiting out on the street for a pickup.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, standing back while I came onto the patio. He closed the door behind me. “Yes. I've been waiting on the street for some time, Miss Winslow.”

“Who?” I said, not remembering the names that Brittles and I had used to check in, but certain that the inn didn't know I was Laura Winslow.

“Nineteen minutes,” the man said, looking at his wrist
watch. “Your friend Mister Brittles will be calling in nineteen minutes. We'd better be leaving.”

Behind me before I could move, he wrapped one arm around my body, pinning my side against the adobe wall, and using his other hand to press a handkerchief over my nose and mouth.

Ether,
my brain shouted, but I couldn't make a noise, didn't even have time to think of a reaction, the ether and whatever else was on the handkerchief working so fast. I slumped in his arms, barely conscious. When he let go of my arms, I slapped him hard across the face, twice, until the fumes I'd already inhaled made me even groggier and I tried to slap him again, but he just caught my limp hand and held it for a moment. He stooped over, threw me over his shoulder, looked up and down the sidewalks in case anybody was watching, and went to an open gate on a side street. A tan Mercedes stood at the curb, the trunk already opened. In one fluid gesture he tossed me into the trunk and slammed the lid.