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“Her house is empty. Her car isn’t there.”
“Gone home.”
“Er…you mean she’s dead?”
The old woman on the whi
te sheets wheezed and gasped for breath. She seemed unable to speak any longer. She motioned to him.
Fat Charlie said, “Shall I get help?”
She nodded, and continued to gasp and choke and wheeze as he went out to find Mrs. Bustamonte. She was sitting in the kitchen, watching Oprah on a very small countertop television. “She wants you,” he said.
Mrs. Bustamonte went out. She came back holding the empty water jug. “What do you say to set her off like that?”
“Was she having an attack or something?”
Mrs. Bustamonte gave him a look. “No, Charles. She was laughing at you. She say you make her feel good.”
“Oh. She said Mrs. Higgler had gone home. I asked if she meant she was dead.”
Mrs. Bustamonte smiled then. “Saint Andrews,” she said. “Callyanne’s gone to Saint Andrews.” She refilled the jug in the sink.
Fat Charlie said, “When all this started I thought that it was me against Spider, and you four were on my side. And now Spider’s been taken, and it’s me against the four of you.”
She turned off the water and gazed at him sullenly.
“I don’t believe anyone anymore,” said Fat Charlie. “Mrs. Dunwiddy’s probably faking being ill. Probably as soon as I leave here she’ll be out of bed and doing the charleston around her bedroom.”
“She not eating. She say it makes her feel bad inside. Won’t take a thing to fill her belly. Just water.”
“Where in Saint Andrews is she?” asked Fat Charlie.
“Just go,” said Mrs. Bustamonte. “Your family, you done enough harm here.”
Fat Charlie looked as if he was about to say something, and then he didn’t, and he left without another word.
Mrs. Bustamonte took the jug of water in to Mrs. Dunwiddy, who lay quiet in the bed.
“Nancy’s son hates us,” said Mrs. Bustamonte. “What you tell him anyhow?”
Mrs. Dunwiddy said nothing. Mrs. Bustamonte listened, and when she was sure that the older woman was still breathing, she took off Mrs. Dunwiddy’s thick spectacles and put them down by the bed, then pulled up the sheet to cover Mrs. Dunwiddy’s shoulders.
After that, she simply waited for the end.
FAT CHARLIE DROVE OFF, NOT ENTIRELY CERTAIN WHERE HE WAS going. He had crossed the Atlantic for the third time in two weeks, and the money that Spider had given him was almost tapped out. He was alone in the car, and being alone, he hummed.
He passed a clutch of Jamaican restaurants when he noticed a sign in a storefront window: Cut Price to the Islands. He pulled up and went inside.
“We at A-One travel are here to serve all your travel needs,” said the travel agent, in the hushed and apologetic tone of voice doctors normally reserve for telling people that the limb in question is going to have to come off.
“Er. Yeah. Thanks. Er. What’s the cheapest way to get out to Saint Andrews?”
“Will you be going on vacation?”
“Not really. I just want to go out for a day. Maybe two days.”
“Leaving when?”
