The 13 th tribe

[15]

Sunlight reflected off the rippling water and played against the room’s arched ceiling like electrical currents. Reclining in a poolside lounge chair, Philippe Gerard blew smoke into the air, adding to the illusion that he was in a dream, just floating in clouds and waiting to wake up. If only…

He had never thought his carefully constructed scheme to get rich would fall apart as suddenly as it had done. But like a house of cards, once the first fell, the rest followed.

Above him, the imitation lightning storm dissipated. He reached down to a box of tennis balls and tossed one into the pool, restarting the sun’s reflected dance.

While it had lasted, his empire building had worked like the hand of God, relentless and unseen but for the things it left in its wake. It had built the lavish mansion around him; given him friends who controlled countries and starred in blockbuster movies; funded vacation homes, cars, global travel-everything he’d ever dreamed of owning and doing. But now that everyone knew the money had flowed out of retirement accounts and trust funds, diminishing them to near nothing, not only were the friends gone and the bank accounts frozen, but Philippe was days away from being sentenced to decades in prison.

He flipped the cigarette into the pool. He would miss this place, its opulence and proximity to the opera houses and nightclubs. The sunlight danced on the ceiling, calming him. At least that, the sunlight, he would not miss, because he was taking it with him. Different walls, different water, but equally beautiful, equally tranquil. He had no intention of ever seeing the gray drabness of a prison cell. Years ago he had purchased a villa in the resort town of Yalikavak, on Turkey’s Bodrum Peninsula. Panoramic views of the Aegean Sea, a private beach, rooms with glass walls that levered up to let in the warm sea breezes.

His mother had been Turkish and had always insisted that he maintain citizenship in her native country. Now her conceit seemed providential. With Turkey’s notoriously rigid extradition laws, he was a short car ride and private flight away from leaving his troubles behind.

Jacquelyn and the kids were already in Yalikavak, preparing for his arrival. He’d finished tying up loose ends with just enough time for one last meditation by the pool before the car came to whisk him away. He picked up the pack and tapped out another cigarette.

A loud rapping on glass made his fingers fumble, and the smoke fell to the tiled floor. He jerked his head around to see a figure at one of the French doors. At that angle, the pane’s many bevels prevented a clear view. Only a journalist would be so bold as to broach the walls and gates around his property and make his way around back after receiving no answer at the front door.

“Go away!” he yelled.

More rapping, loud and sustained.

He sighed and rose out of the lounge chair. He pulled his robe closed and tied the belt, then picked up the revolver that had been under his leg. Holding it behind him, he approached the doors. A beautiful woman smiled at him from the other side. Long black hair, finely chiseled cheekbones and nose, exotic dark eyes-pretty enough to be the on-camera talent for any number of news agencies. But she was less modestly dressed than the ones who’d been shoving microphones in his face recently: tight black slacks, what appeared to be a matching bodice that accentuated her hourglass figure. A long black trench coat, open in front, fell below her knees. He glanced past her, saw no one else, no cameramen or sound guys lurking behind a topiary.

Hope goosed his heart. A fan, maybe? A going-away gift from one of his attorneys? He stopped in front of the door, only thin panes of glass between him and what he now realized was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Perhaps thirty-five, she was one of those rare wonders whose appearance had obviously refined with age.

He shook his head. “No interviews,” he said.

She pouted and said, “Do I look like I’m here to interview you?”

Behind his back, his finger slid over the trigger. His other hand unbolted the door, and he pulled it open. A breeze pushed her scent to him, overpowering the pool house’s chlorine and tobacco. It confused his imagination-not altogether unpleasant, but dusty and old, with a touch of sweetness, an orchid ground into dirt. “What do you want?” he said. “This is private-”

Her hand came out of the trench coat pocket, holding a piece of paper, which she unfolded with the same hand. He saw a printout of a newspaper article, his face prominently displayed. She looked at it, then at him. “You’re more handsome in person,” she said.

He fought a smile. “What is this? Who are you?”

Her features hardened, as if solidifying into a statue-just as beautiful, but unattainable now, someone else’s vision of beauty cast forever in stone. “Justice,” she said.

“What?” He began to pull the gun around. Someone slapped it out of his hand. He spun. A man glared at him with wild eyes, a big crazy grin. Twin white wires snaked from a bulge in his shirt pocket to his ears. Midtwenties, short-cropped hair, patchy facial fur: Philippe immediately pegged him as a punk and realized the situation had exploded into something horrible. The young man lifted a flat blade, replacing half his face with the reflected image of Philippe’s stunned expression. Squiggles of blood cracked the image like veins through marble.

Philippe looked down at his gun on the floor and saw his hand still clutching it. Blood pumped out of the stump of his wrist. For the briefest moment, all he could think about was how sharp the knife must be to slice through flesh and bone so easily. He reeled back and felt a sharp pain in his lower back and the solid form of the woman pushing against him.

The punk’s blade flashed toward him.

When it was over, Nevaeh gazed down at the bloody corpse.

Phin bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, absently shaking blood off his blade. He tugged out his earbuds and let them dangle over his shoulder. “Like a cold glass of water in a desert,” he said. He bent, dipped two fingers into a pool of blood, and held them under his nose. He stopped fidgeting long enough to cast a puzzled expression at her. “What’s wrong?”

Staring at the body, she said, “I just keep thinking, This is it. This is the one.” She looked into Phin’s eyes. “But it never is.”

“Someday,” he said, his head nodding like a bobblehead. “He can’t ignore us forever.”

“Can’t he?”

With that she spun around, sending her hair sailing behind her like a cape, and strode through the backyard toward the gate.