Leslie and Daniel drove northward in her Lexus, neither saying anything, he resting his head back, eyes closed. Conserving himself. Then he opened his eyes and looked out ahead and said, “Slow down.”
She did, but said, “Why?”
Instead of answering, he opened his window. She had the air-conditioning on, of course, and now the humid air billowed in, and with it a faint distant sound of sirens. She said, “Police?”
He laughed, a sound like a bark. “Fire engine,” he said. “I told you they were gaudy. They aren't going in from the sea after all, they're going in from the land, in a fire engine.”
“But there isn't any fire,” she said.
“With them? There's a fire. It's along here now.”
He meant Mr. Roderick's house, or whoever Mr. Roderick really was. As he closed his window, she said, “Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No. You go home. I'll call you tomorrow.”
“What if you don't?”
“Then I don't,” he said. “Stop here.”
She rolled to a stop near the Roderick house, and he paused, his hand on the door handle. “The question is, how do they get back out? Tuxes under the fire coats?”
She said, “To mingle with the guests, you mean? Could they do that?”
“They think they can do anything,” he said, and opened the door. “I'll call you tomorrow.”
At the Fritz house, more fire engines had arrived, blocked by the milling crowd and the still-screaming first fire engine that none of the later firefighters recognized. “Whose is this? Is this from West Palm? What the hell's it doing here?”
In the ballroom, Melander and Carlson and Ross finished loading the jewelry into their waist bags. They put the air canisters back on, put on the divers’ face masks and the mouthpieces and the headlamps. From hooks inside their turnout coats they brought out pairs of black flippers.
Leslie found a place to park, locked the Lexus, and walked back down the road toward Mr. Roderick's house.
Firemen hurried through the mansion and found the ballroom doors wedged shut. They had their axes and used them, splintering the doors.
Melander and Carlson and Ross heard the thuds of the axes. Melander shoved a display case out of the way and they went through the terrace doors and ran across the terrace, invisible in their black wet suits, holding their flippers in their hands. A little apart from one another, so they wouldn't collide underwater, they dove into the sea.
Firemen smashed their way into the ballroom. Police followed. As the rockets fizzled out and the fires began to fade, they looked around at the emptiness.
All gone.
FOUR
1
If he didn't exert himself, the pains in his chest were just a small irritation, a low grumbling, like far-off thunder. But when he had to move, even to do simple things like pull on pants, the pain punched him all over again, like brand-new, like the bullet thudding into him right now instead of a week ago. Still, he didn't mind the pain as much as the weakness, especially in his legs. He wasn't used to being dialed down like this; he kept expecting the strength, and it wasn't there.
The worst part of getting into the house was the climb over the windowsill. He found the suction-cup handles where he'd left them, attached them to the pane of glass he'd scored, removed the glass, and reached in to unlock and open the window. Then he put the glass pane through the opening and stretched to rest it on the floor inside, leaning against the wall.
That was the first punch. His breathing was constricted anyway, because of the bandages around his ribs, and the punch constricted it even more, so that he inhaled with hoarse sounds that he'd have to control later, in the house.
He hoisted himself over the windowsill, gritting his teeth, not blacking out, but lying on his back on the floor until the pain receded and his breath was closer to normal. Then he stood, shut the window, dropped the suction-cup handles through the open pane into the shrubbery outside, and fitted the piece of glass back into place.
He had time to search the house, but not long. There were two changes in the garage: the white Bronco was there, the same one they'd used after the bank robbery, and the trunk where he'd found their weapons was open and empty. Did they have the guns with them, on the job?
No. All six were on the dining room table, the three automatics and the three shotguns. The Sentinel was still under the table. He left it there; what he needed to do would be done differently.
In the living room, the alarm system had been switched on. Its warning light gleamed red, though Parker had seen to it that it would not respond to break-ins. And in the kitchen, the refrigerator was now full of food, as were the shelves. So they planned to spend a few days here, until things calmed down, which was smart.
Parker made his way through the house, slowly, noting the changes, pausing to lean against a wall when the weakness got to be too much. He came last to the big empty room with the piano in the corner and the glass wall facing the sea, and out there lights now moved back and forth, police boats with searchlights, roving this way and that, like dogs who've lost a scent. So the trio had gone to the robbery by land, in a fire engine or some other official vehicle, but they'd left by sea.
Soon they'd be back here. In a boat? Or were they diving? Probably diving.
He didn't have much time to find a hiding place. He had to be secure, but somewhere that would make it possible to move around. He went up to the second floor, tried all the shut doors up there, and found a staircase leading up to the attic. It was covered with black industrial carpet and didn't make a sound.
The attic area at the top of the stairs had been converted into a screening room, probably by the movie star couple, and then later all the projection equipment had been taken out again, leaving two dozen plush swivel chairs facing a screen attached to the wall. The screening room had been meant to look like a thirties movie house, with art deco lighting sconces and dark red fabric on the walls. There was no reason for the three to come up here, so this was where Parker would wait until he could get at them.
He went back down to the second floor and out one of the bedrooms to the upstairs terrace. Lights still moved back and forth in the thick darkness, but Parker knew the police boats were searching too far out, probably expecting to find a boat. But the three would stick close to shore as they made their way back, without a boat.
He sat on one of the chaises, feet up, and watched the lights roam out there. So long as they stayed out there, restlessly moving, Melander and Carlson and Ross had not been caught. So they had a good operation, and they were now on their way to Parker with twelve million dollars in jewelry.
It was good to sit here for a minute, after the exertion of moving through the house, but he didn't want to get too comfortable and fall asleep. He could sleep later.
The dim flashlight had been moving on the beach for a minute or two before his mind told him what his eyes were looking at. A small light, fainter and more diffuse than the searchlights out over the ocean, was headed this way up the beach from the water. The three, coming back?
One of them. And it wasn't a flashlight, it was a headlamp. The figure beneath it was black, almost impossible to see as he came forward across the sand. Parker lost sight of the lamp and the hurrying man as he neared the retaining wall at the edge of the property, then he heard the loud rusty squeal as the gate at the foot of the narrow concrete stairs was opened.
Here came the headlamp, up the stairs to the terrace. And beyond him, two more lights were now coming from the sea.
All three of them. Parker got to his feet and stood back by the door, ready to go inside.
The first one down below stopped on the terrace and was taking something bulky off his back. A scuba tank. And now the other two came up, also removing scuba tanks, and the first one spoke, and it was Melander: “Did you see the dolphin?”
“No. What dolphin?” That was Carlson, the driver.
“He crossed right in front of us.”
“You were out ahead, you were making some sort of race out of it.”
“I wanted to get back.”
Ross, the third one, said, “In the morning, early, we gotta sweep the sand down there.”
Carlson said, “Why?”
“You see those lights? They'll stay out there till daylight, and when they're sure we didn't get picked up in a boat they'll come back in and search the island, and one thing they'll look for is footprints coming in from the sea.”
Melander said, “Jerry, you're right. I never would have thought of that, and tomorrow morning they'd be all over my ass.”
Carlson said, “First light, the cops'll be out, too, maybe they see us sweeping. We should do it now.”
Melander said, “Let me get out of this wet suit, and then I'll do anything you want.”
They started to move toward the house, carrying their scuba tanks. They were almost out of sight from Parker's vantage point, and he was about to step inside, when everybody heard the sudden squeak of the gate down below, abruptly stopped.
Melander was fast. He didn't bother with the stairs, just ran forward, vaulted over the railing, and dropped the seven feet to the sand below.
Parker heard the woman cry out in sudden fear, and knew immediately it was Leslie. Wanting to be sure she got hers, wanting to hang around and observe from just out of sight, and immediately got herself caught.
Ross and Carlson ran down the stairs to take a hand. Would they kill her? That would be the simplest, for Parker and for them both, kill her and throw the body in the ocean and forget about it.
No. They were bringing her up the stairs. They were curious, they wanted to ask her some questions, complicate things a little more.
Parker watched the three dark men come up, headlamps bobbing, the paler figure of Leslie struggling in their midst. She was protesting, stupid half-sentences, pretending to be just an innocent bystander, nothing to do with anything, which they would not buy for a minute. They've just come back from the biggest heist in Palm Beach history, and here's a woman trying to sneak into their house. Not a coincidence.
But Parker didn't expect the conclusion that Melander leaped to, as easily as he'd leaped over the wall. While Leslie continued to struggle and to argue, Melander shook her with the one hand holding her arm and said, “Don't make me punch you, okay? You gotta shut up now so we can talk.”
She did shut up then, shrinking into herself as she looked at the three of them, looming over her, encased in black, with the headlamps shining in her eyes. Parker saw her face unnaturally white against the darkness all around as she forced herself to be silent.
And Melander had a touch of gloating humor in his voice when he said, “Claire Willis, am I right? We visited your house, up north, sorry you weren't there.”
She blinked at them, baffled. “What?”
Melander said, “So that means our friend Parker's around someplace, too. He'd probably like us to take good care of you, right? Let's go inside. You could be valuable to us.”
Damn. Almost as irritated with Leslie as with the other three, Parker faded into the house and up the attic stairs. Leslie didn't have a purse with her, and probably didn't have ID, and wouldn't be able to prove who she was. So let them thrash it out together all they wanted. Sooner or later, they'd go to sleep.
2
But he went to sleep first, not intending to, and woke when the wall sconce lights came on, then heard them coming up the stairs. Why? To have a place to keep their prisoner.
When he'd first come up, in the darkness, he'd sat on one of the swivel chairs with his feet on another, but the curved position was bad for his ribs, bad all around, and he gave up and lay on his back on the black-carpeted floor. He didn't think he'd sleep, it wasn't that late. Melander and Carlson and Ross had done the robbery a little after eight, just barely night, then full night by the time they got back to this house, after eight-thirty. They'd be keyed up, and now they'd have Leslie to distract them, so they wouldn't go to sleep until late. Parker figured he shouldn't go downstairs until at least three in the morning, so he had six hours up here to rest.
But he hadn't expected to sleep. Normally, he could hold sleep off until the work at hand was done, but this was some other part of the weakness. He'd been awake, lying on his back in the darkness among all the swivel chairs, planning how he would take them out, and now he was awake again, the red-tinged lights clicking on, the swivel chairs like flying saucers above him.
He heard them coming up the stairs, Melander saying, “This is a nice quiet place for you till the morning, keep you out of trouble.”
Parker rolled against the wall farthest from the stairs, black clothing against black carpet, turned away so the paleness of his face and hands wouldn't show.
“What is this?” That was Leslie, still trying to catch up.
Melander, the grin in his voice, said, “The previous owners used to watch their own movies in here. Think how much fun people used to have in this room. Maybe if you're real quiet, you can hear the singing and the dancing and the laughing.”
“And if you're not real quiet,” Carlson said, “you'll hear from us.”
“Oh, come on, Hal,” Melander said. “Claire's gonna cooperate, aren't you, Claire?”
“I've told you I'm not—”
Slap. Melander's voice, no longer humorous: “And I've told you, quit insulting my intelligence. I'm losing my good disposition, Claire, you follow me?”
Silence from Leslie. Ross said, “She'll be all right now, Boyd. Won't you?”
“Please …”
“See?” Now Ross was being the good cop, saying, “Here's the light switch here, you can turn it on or off, whatever you want. The door's gonna be locked down there, but we'll let you out in the morning, we'll have a good breakfast, talk it over.”
“That's right,” Melander said, in a good mood again. “No more excitement for tonight. You go on over there and sit down. Go on, now, just go right over by those chairs and—”
Her shriek at that second was not because they'd hit her again or anything like that. Parker knew exactly what it was. Coming deeper into the room, she'd piped him, and immediately tipped him to the others, like a bird dog.
She'd been better than the normal amateur, until it mattered.
Yes. Here came the footsteps and Melander's humorous surprise, saying, “And what have we here?”
Parker rolled over onto his back to look up at them. Carlson and Ross carried the automatics he'd ruined. He said, “You boys pulled a nice one today,” hating the reediness of his voice.
Carlson said, “And you thought you'd wait till we were asleep and take it away from us.”
“Just keeping an eye on my share,” Parker said.
Melander said, “On your feet.”
“He's been shot!” Leslie blurted. “He isn't even supposed to be out of the hospital!”
They frowned at her, and then down at Parker. Melander said, “Is that right?”
“Shot in the chest,” Parker said. “Some broken ribs. I'll live.”
“Maybe,” Carlson said.
Melander backed away a pace. “Okay, Parker,” he said. “You can stay up here with—”
Leslie said, “That's Parker?”
Before Melander could smack her again, Parker said, “Give it up, Claire, we folded that hand.”
She blinked at him, but at last she was beginning to get her wits about her, and she didn't argue the point.
Ross came forward, saying, “You bandaged and stuff?”
“Around the chest.”
“Where you carrying? I'll just ease it out without making trouble for you.”
Parker shook his head. “Not carrying. I don't want you to think I'm still sore.”
They didn't believe him. Melander, laughing, said, “We come in peace? Check him out, Jerry.”
Ross handed his automatic to Carlson and went to one knee beside Parker. “Sorry about this,” he said.
“Go ahead
.”
Ross patted him down without unnecessary pain, then shrugged and looked up at the other two. “He's clean.”
“Will wonders never cease,” Melander said. “Okay, Parker, we'll talk in the morning. Your investment came through, right?”
“Right,” Parker said.
Ross took his dead automatic back from Carlson, and the three of them went downstairs, murmuring together, a little confused. Parker was here, but hurt, and unarmed. What did it mean?
The lock clicked on the door downstairs. Leslie said, “I'm sorry, Daniel. It's all my fault.”
“Yes,” he said.
3
He sat on the floor, back against the wall. The hard surfaces were best, when he was awake. She sat in one of the swivel chairs. She said, “You were going to hide up here until they were asleep and then go down and kill them, weren't you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Pillow for Carlson and Ross. Melander last, the big one, with a bullet. They're in separate rooms.”
“Are you strong enough to do that? With the pillow?”
“I'm not going to find out,” he said.
“Because of me.”
“Yes.”
“If you weren't strong enough, you'd use a knife?”
“No. You can't do a real job with a knife and stay clean. There's tools in the kitchen. Hammers.”
“Oh.” She blinked, and licked her lips, and moved on away from that, saying, “If it wasn't for me, they wouldn't have had any reason to come up here, and they wouldn't have found you.”
“That's right.”
“But why tell them I'm Claire? Is Claire your girlfriend?”
“If they think you're Claire,” Parker said, “they'll think I want to keep you alive, so you're a bargaining chip in their favor. Keeps them calm.”
“But you don't care if I live or die,” she said, “do you?”
“I'd rather you were dead,” he said.
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