“Marley, are you listening? I really don’t care whether he lives or dies. My only concern is getting my property back and escaping this sandpit without a police escort. The bomb, well, it’s an added inducement for you not to drag your feet. For me, it’s insurance. If I don’t find anything, I want to make sure no one else does either. The fire will offer a little distraction for the cops and security while I make my getaway.”
Perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed since I’d surrendered my gun. Once that power issue was resolved, Kain used my own handcuffs to secure my arms around a pillar that served as a ceiling support. No way could I pull free. I’d watched helplessly as he trussed Braden. Sturdy rope. Expert knots. When—if—Braden regained consciousness, he would never be able to untie himself.
Up to the moment Kain returned from the kitchen with his homemade bomb, I figured faked cooperation could at least save Braden. My plan revolved around luring Kain a safe distance away from Braden before staging a last-ditch insurrection.
The bomb, sitting five feet from the detective’s body, changed everything. The device appeared homemade and not terribly sophisticated, but I assumed it was serviceable. Kain showed me the timer. Made sure I saw the midnight setting.
Heaven help me. What had I done? I should never have given up my gun.
Kain glanced my way. “It’s dark now, almost time to start our treasure hunt. I hope you’ve been thinking real hard about ‘the King’s home.’ Any bright ideas? If your efforts appear insincere, I’ll kill you. No gun. I’m a man of my word. But you’ll die wishing I had used a gun. And once you’re dead, you must realize your lover’s chances to survive are gone, too.
“You have ten minutes,” he added. “I need to change clothes. When I come back, you’d best have a brainstorm.”
Repeating Hugh’s word puzzle over and over in my mind hadn’t helped. I was stumped. For decades, a King family had owned a home on Dear. In fact, it was only a few doors from the Cuthbert estate. However, using the King name seemed way too obvious—even for Hugh. Could I gain anything by suggesting the place? Maybe. The house would be empty. The family only visited in summer and never rented it. Kain would be distracted while he searched.
My captor’s reappearance rattled me. Somehow he’d seemed less menacing ensconced in pink velour. He’d ditched his drag disguise in favor of camouflage fatigues. With his spine uncurled, his bearing became military, menacing. The icy blue eyes were back, cruel as ever. He radiated evil.
“Time’s up,” he said. “Do you have an idea or do we end it here?”
I shared my thoughts about the King family abode.
“How dumb do you think I am? I looked in the Dear Island directory. There’s no listing for a King.”
“True,” I replied, licking my lips. “That’s why you need me, Bozo.”
My one psych class in college hadn’t offered advice on how to talk to megalomaniacs. However, knowing Kain got off on people’s fear, I figured a little attitude might put him off balance—or earn me a quick ticket to eternity. His face registered shock at my hubris. Then he smiled. “My, my. You do plan to entertain me, don’t you? Let’s hear it.”
“My last name is Clark, but I don’t live in the ‘Clark’ house. I live in the ‘Sherman’ house—my mother-in-law’s name. It’ll be another decade before it’s the Clark house. Island etiquette. Jack King’s daughter inherited the family vacation house. Her married name is Winchester.”
He nodded. “Okay, I get it. Let’s go. Hugh’s dumb. It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the best he could do. You’d better rev up your gray matter though. You’re the one on the clock if this doesn’t pan out.”
Kain proved exceedingly careful with his gun when he freed me from my pillar embrace and recuffed my hands behind my back. He nudged me with the pistol as I stole one last look at Braden. Except for the ropes, he looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping. Kain hadn’t even bothered to gag him. No need. No one could hear him if he screamed.
I didn’t fare as well. When we walked outside, I figured we’d head to a car—mine or Kain’s. Then he told me to turn right, away from the driveway and my Mustang. The absence of a car in the drive had been one reason for the ambush’s success. Overgrown bushes concealed the golf cart.
“Your car’s too recognizable. We’ll take the golf cart. I liberated it from the Cuthbert house after I tied up at their dock. Didn’t figure anyone would miss it with Grace, Hugh and the twins gone.”
Kain ordered me to describe our destination then instructed me to sit—an awkward position with my hands locked behind me. My discomfort had only begun.
“I’m not taking any chances.” Kain tightened a noose around my neck and tied it to a roll bar at the back of the cart. “Don’t want you to get any ideas about jumping free or screaming for help.” That’s when he stuffed a rag in my mouth.
How the hell does he plan to drive around the island with me gagged and hogtied? He’s crazy to risk someone’s headlights.
He wasn’t crazy. He pulled a tarp over me and tucked it securely in place. Now if anyone saw the cart moseying down Dear’s dark, quiet streets, the tarp would blend into the shadows. A passerby might notice a shape on the seat next to Kain, but it was unlikely to arouse suspicion.
“Comfy? Ms. Bozo?”
I was getting my comeuppance.
He threw the golf cart into reverse and the noose sawed into my neck as I bucked on the seat. Under the tarp, I was virtually blind. Using my arms to brace myself proved impossible. It would be a rough ride. The graveled roads in this interior section sprouted potholes every few yards.
Each time we hit a rut, my body shot forward, then recoiled. With every bump, the coarse noose sliced a little deeper into my flesh. Suddenly the ride smoothed. The cart swung right. Kain had turned onto Dear’s main boulevard.
We were headed south, toward the King house. We bounced over something sizeable and the whiplash tightened my choke chain. I wheezed in a breath.
I guessed we’d left the road and jumped the grass median separating the street from Dear’s leisure trail. After a few smaller jolts, the cart leveled and shot forward. We were tooling down the walking path, avoiding the main road’s traffic and headlights. Though motorized vehicles aren’t allowed on paths, we’d be invisible at night, especially if he kept his headlamps switched off.
We were minutes from the King’s, and what I felt certain was a dead-end. Minutes for me to manufacture a new lead.
***
Kain flung off the tarp. I gulped in fresh air, relieved to be free of my sweltering hothouse. I shivered as a cold ocean wind buffeted my sweat-soaked limbs. I glanced about. He’d driven the cart behind the King house where it couldn’t be spotted from the street.
He left me tied in the cart while he picked a backdoor lock. I had no illusions about Kain’s forced entry setting off an alarm. Ninety percent of the islanders believed alarm systems were a waste in a gated community complete with roaming security guards. My only hope rested with a security patrol. When properties were placed “on watch”—listed as vacant—guards periodically strolled around the house and rattled its doors and windows. Of course, the odds of security showing up at this precise moment were slim to none.
“You’re coming inside.” He led me like a dog by my hemp leash. Inside, he tied the rope end of my noose to a refrigerator that anchored one end of a galley kitchen. As soon as he ran up the stairs to search the top floor, I made a stab at getting a weapon. The rope gave me a three-foot radius to open and rifle kitchen drawers. Since my hands were locked behind me, I couldn’t look and grab at the same time. Besides it was too dark to see. Kain used a penlight to search, eliminating the need to turn on any house lights.
Damn, damn, double damn. My fingers scrabbled around in the first drawer I opened. Fabric, quilted. It was stuffed with hot pads. Great weapons.
I pushed the drawer closed with my butt and groped for the next handle. I slid a new drawer open. Aha, silverware. Much more promisin
g. Unfortunately the knives I fingered would have made safe toddler toys. They were duller than Bea.
I heard Kain padding down the carpeted stairs and palmed a fork. Slightly more lethal than a butter knife, it was the best I could do. I slid it under my waistband. Knowing my luck I’d fork myself in a kidney before I could stick it to Kain.
I scooted the drawer closed with my bottom just before my nemesis rounded the corner and walked over to threaten me with hot garlic-laced breath. “There’s nothing here. So do I get to kill you now, or can you postpone your death a little longer?”
He looked at his watch. “Six hours left for Deputy Do-Right. Tick, tick, tick. What’s your answer? Any more bright ideas?”
I think it surprised him that I had one. “‘The King’s h-house,’” I stammered. “It’s usually a palace, right? Well, one street over is a house with white marble walls and a turret. Islanders think it’s pretentious. They call it the palace.”
I was jabbering too fast and forced myself to slow. Mom always said she could tell my fibs—I sounded like a record played at the wrong speed. And I was fibbing. Yes, there was a white marble house with a turret. No, I’d never heard it called a palace.
Luckily, Kain lacked my mother’s sensibilities and bought into my whopper. A scooch more time purchased. Hang in there, Braden. I’m trying. I prayed the “palace” was unoccupied. This time of year, it tended to be a weekend getaway. I had no desire to drag innocents into danger.
Kain allowed me to climb into the golf cart on my own. I did so with careful posture to avoid a poke in the back from my pilfered flatware. He reinserted my gag and threw the tarp over my head. Back in the dark. But not for long. The “palace” sat right around the corner.
***
My heart sank when Kain peeled back the tarp. The palace was flamboyantly occupied. Though blinds were drawn, light oozed from every window.
“Guess someone’s home, so we play it differently. You’re the one in uniform so you’ll do the talking. Tell ’em someone saw a burglar sneaking around their house. Say we need to check their place to make sure it’s safe. I’ll stay glued to you.
“Remember, I’ve got the gun. Do anything to raise suspicion and I kill you and them. Understand?”
This time, he angled the golf cart behind a dune near a beach crossover. He yanked the gag from my mouth so I could answer. My mouth was so dry my “yes” sounded like a squeak toy. He was super-cautious as he removed my noose and handcuffs.
“You know what I’m looking for, right? A blue cooler with a white lid.”
“I figured that. But I don’t understand. I’ve seen how you live. Crime pays, and you’re good at it. So what’s fifty thousand cash to you? A week’s profit?”
“Not even that.” Kain snorted at the insult. “I could care less about the money.”
Oh. It was beginning to make sense. That cooler held something more.
“What are you after?” I asked.
“Move it.” Kain shoved to emphasize his point. I staggered and the pilfered fork slid down my pant leg. At least the loss was quiet. My captor never noticed the utensil poking from the sandy soil. The mansion had his full attention.
Built in the last year, the dwelling’s living quarters floated on piers positioned the required fourteen feet above sea level. That meant we had to mount an acre of steps to reach the front door. With every tread, I tried to think of a feint, some way to take Kain down without endangering strangers. But my Tae Bo moves were more defense than offense. Even if I were Jackie Chan, I’d give the odds to the guy with his finger on a trigger. Kain made sure I knew his gun was in his jacket pocket, cocked, and ready to fire.
I pushed the bell. Kain crowded me. The tip of his gun poked my ribs.
A reed-thin girl flung open the door. Blaring music assaulted our ears. Flickering images from the living room TV replayed in miniature on the front door’s glass inset. The girl, fourteen at most, looked anorexic and bored. I started my spiel. She cut me off.
“Mom, someone to see you,” she shouted and shuffled back to her music video.
For a moment, we stood orphaned in the hall. Then a middle-aged woman rushed to meet us, apologizing for her uncouth teen. While I recited my load-of-crap story, the lady ignored me, preferring to offer Kain a come-hither grin. She liked what she saw and repeated her name, Sherry. Three times she mentioned she was alone with her daughter, a respite from a nasty divorce.
Kain made sympathetic noises. The woman accompanied us on our rounds, striking provocative poses in her midriff-baring yoga getup. She kept up a steady patter for his benefit. I hoped her attraction didn’t prove fatal. I was invisible to her, though not to my warden, who kept me lassoed in his peripheral vision.
I reconciled myself to the fact I couldn’t jump him here. However, I decided the woman’s banter and his focus on the search might offer enough distraction for me to leave a plea for help. With a fingernail, I probed a scab on my wrist, one of several deep scratches from my Bobcat freefall. Blood quickly welled up from my probe. We walked into the woman’s kitchen. While Kain surveyed the pantry, I smeared blood on my finger, backed up to the white marble countertop and wrote “911.” My body shielded my scribbling fingers from Kain’s vigilant eyes.
“Everything looks fine here, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you, Sherry, for your help.”
She cooed her appreciation. While he flirted with her, I charged out of the kitchen as if I suddenly had to pee. I wanted their eyes on me, not on my bloody message.
In a minute, we were out the front door. I sighed my relief as I fast-walked, forcing Kain to trot to catch up. I wanted us out of Sherry’s range when she returned to her kitchen and discovered my entreaty. Hope to God she doesn’t misinterpret and call us back to help. I feared she’d decide our fictitious burglar had bloodied her white marble, not stopping to wonder why he would scratch out “911.”
Back at the cart, Kain stared at me. He was angry, suspicious. “What’s your hurry? Two strikes. You know what happens on strike three. You’re dead. I’ll cut my losses. Maybe I should kill you now. You don’t have a single idea, do you?”
“No, but you’re not exactly helping, partner.” I’d played to his enormous ego. “You say Hugh’s not very bright. Well, that must mean you aren’t either. You know the man. I don’t. Tell me about him. Give me something to work with.”
Kain raised his hand and smacked me hard across the mouth. My lip split open and I tasted blood. Uh, not the best tactic.
Then he smiled. “First things first. I want to make sure you understand me. One more smart crack, and you’re dead. But you make a point; let’s talk about Hugh, partner.”
Moonlight peeked from behind a cloud and plowed a golden road out to sea. I blinked away the beauty, a mirage with this murderer at my side. I imagined my watch ticking. Seconds, minutes disappearing—along with Braden’s chances. Ask questions, I ordered myself. Buy time. Think.
I questioned Kain about Hugh and his lifestyle. Did he have friends on the island? Did they ever meet anywhere besides the villa on Blue Crab Point? Where did Hugh like to fish? What did the gigolo do before he met Grace, his golden goose?
An epiphany. Bingo. The King’s home. Of course. Hugh had been a Vegas entertainer. If you’re a singer, who’s the king? Elvis. The King’s home is Graceland.
Only islanders knew about Graceland. Its formal name is Cuthbert Park, a tiny pocket of green that Gator and Sally set aside to honor their benefactor, Grace Cuthbert. Islanders called it Graceland. The park’s pavilion featured kitchen facilities, including a large trough to ice down soft drinks and beer. A place for cold cash? The pavilion closed in winter and had yet to reopen for spring picnickers. Had Hugh put the cooler in the trough? The King’s House. Cold cash. A possibility. A strong possibility.
“Okay, what are you thinking?” Kain demanded.
I’d gone quiet while my creaky mental wheels spun. A clear giveaway. Should I tell him? If his property’s there, he’ll kill me. P
eriod. I don’t have a damn thing to gain by taking him to Graceland. Or do I? When we left the palace, Kain cuffed my hands in front.
“Let’s go to the King’s home,” I whispered. As soon as I finished my directions, the gag returned and the tarp fell, once more obliterating the moon and stars. In my black cocoon, I tried to visualize every crevice of the picnic pavilion, fix in my mind the exact position of the rusty hatchet. A small one for splitting wood, kept handy by a fire pit. The last time I’d been to Graceland—a shrimp boil—the axe leaned in a shadowed corner. Not far from the ice trough. God, help me.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I rotated my cuffed wrists and wiggled a finger into position to illuminate the dial on my watch—7:14 p.m. The iridescent green numbers kept marching. The bomb would explode in less than five hours. I could reach Braden in plenty of time—if my plan worked.
Kain whistled a tune I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t sure what made him happier, the prospect of reclaiming his treasure or killing me. My Graceland leap of logic definitely cheered him.
“Sounds like Hugh,” he said. “Let’s hope it’s there.”
Oh, let’s.
I rehearsed the moves in my mind. Wait till he peers in the trough, opens the cooler lid. Grab the axe and swing. Aim for his head? No, he might sense movement and duck. The torso’s a bigger target. Better chance to immobilize. You want him down. Dead can wait.
The golf cart shuddered to a stop. We’d arrived. My heart skipped a beat; my hands trembled. Under the heavy canvas wrap, my body manufactured heat like a stoked fire. Sweat streamed down my face. My shirt plastered itself to my body. God, he’ll know I have something planned.
Kain whipped the tarp off with a flourish, like an artist unveiling a masterpiece.
His eyes gleamed. “I wondered when it would arrive—the fear. I see it in your face. You’re shaking with terror. Sometimes I smell it on people. An odor, bitter like almonds. You lasted longer than most, Marley.
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 27