He'd slept the day away, laced into a sea grape. They hadn't found him, so they hadn't looked for him or they would have found him, so Leslie's story—whatever it had been—had not included him.
Could he get up out of here? The first thing was to try to stand, untie himself from this tree. Reaching this way and that for handholds, his knuckles brushed the chain-link fence, and he grabbed onto it, used it to pull himself forward and then upward until he was vertical and could try to do something about the cramps.
For the torso, just slow breathing, slow and regular breathing, holding it in. For the legs, flexing them and flexing them and flexing them, waiting it out. Until finally only the familiar pains in his chest were left, a little worse than before, but not crippling.
He could see nothing, but he could feel the three jewelry pouches, still looped onto his belt in front and on the left side. He still had hold of the fence, and now he began to climb it, slowly, with long pauses. The legs threatened to bind up on him again, and the breathing was very thick and soupy, but he kept moving upward, a bit at a time, and finally came out onto the terrace behind the late Mr. Roderick's house. He sprawled there, on his back.
Light. A quarter-moon and many stars. The hushing sound of the ocean, rising and falling. No other sound and no other light.
Finally, when he felt he had the strength for it, he gathered his arms and legs under himself, and levered himself upward, and used the protective wrought-iron fence for support, and then he was on his feet.
The house was dark, its many glass doors dully reflecting the bright night sky. Something ribbonlike fluttered over there, horizontal, at waist height, and when he moved slowly closer to the building it was a yellow police crime-scene tape. They'd sealed the house.
How sealed was it? He needed this house. In slow stages, with many pauses, he worked his way around to the front, where the Dumpster still loomed in the moonlight and more crime-scene tape semaphored in the night breeze. But there were no vehicles, no guards. The crime at the crime scene, as far as the law was concerned, was over.
It took longer this time to find the suction-cup handles, but eventually he did, and got into the house the same way as before, but feeling the damage to his body even worse. He did pass out, for a while, lying on the floor inside the house, the window open beside him, but then he came out of it and stood and finished the job, tossing the suction-cup handles outside again, hoping to never need those anymore. He reinserted the loose pane of glass, and then he was inside.
The alarm pad by the front door gleamed its red warning, but had the police checked to be certain the alarm hadn't been tampered with? No, they hadn't. If the alarm was doing its job, his opening the window would have set it off.
And if he were his usual self, he'd have been much more cautious about coming in here. He could see that the physical toll was beginning to make him careless, sloppy in his thinking. He couldn't let that happen.
It wasn't really possible to search the place in this darkness, even if he had the strength. But the air had the flat silence of an empty house, and he was sure he was alone.
The same furniture was still in the dining room, though disarranged; nobody had bothered to pick up the chair Parker had knocked over. In the kitchen, the refrigerator was still full of food. There was cold fried chicken in there, and there was beer. He ate and drank, and then curled up on the floor and slept.
7
On Monday they came to clean out the house, where he'd been trying to recuperate since Saturday night. They didn't expect to find anybody inside the place, so Parker had no trouble keeping out of their way. They were two plainclothes detectives, one bored uniform, and a crew of movers. The detectives would check each room, okay it, and the movers would label everything and take it all out.
Having expected something like this, Parker had already made a stash of provisions, hidden in the unfinished part of the attic. In there were a razor and shaving cream and comb and some clothing, all things the dead heisters had left behind, plus an unopened box of cereal, a plastic bag of rolls, two cans of tuna, and half a dozen bottles of beer. But if they were going to shut this house down completely he wouldn't be able to stay much longer.
After they left, he came down to see what they'd taken, which was all the furniture, all the personal possessions, all the leftover food. The refrigerator was there, but had been switched off and the door propped open. There was still water and still electricity, so he started the refrigerator and put the beer and rolls in it.
What he was waiting for was Leslie. She'd come back, he knew she would. She'd figure some way to get back to this house, if only out of curiosity. Or, more likely, to try to find his trail. One way or another, she would show up here, and that's what he had to count on, because he needed her assistance just one more time. He knew he couldn't just walk out of here and down the road, looking the way he did. He wouldn't get half a mile before some cop would stop to ask questions. Any question at all.
Wednesday afternoon. He was spending most of his waking time seated on the floor on the second-floor terrace, out of sight of anybody on the beach, but in the open air, giving his body a chance to relax, to heal itself. He had all the interior doors open in the house, and the door to the terrace open, so he'd hear if anybody came in.
Midafternoon, the terrace now in the building's shadow. He felt hungry, but otherwise not bad. The breathing was better, the ribs less painful. The bandages were now almost a week old, but he didn't want to remove them or fuss with them because he didn't have any replacements.
He heard the front door shut, and rose, grunting a little. In the doorway, he could look straight down the staircase to the front hall, where he saw Leslie just disappearing to the right. Going to switch off the useless alarm.
He stepped through the doorway, leaned on the railing at the head of the stairs, waited. She came into view again down there, looking around, as though deciding what to do first. Softly, he called, “You alone?”
She lifted her startled face, saw him up there. “My God! I thought you were a thousand miles from here!”
“Not yet. Wait there, I'll come down.”
He went down, and they sat together on the staircase, and he noted the clump of keys in her hand. “It's okay you being here?”
She grinned, pleased with herself. “I've got the exclusive,” she said.
“I don't follow.”
“The house reverted to its former owner,” she explained, “so it's on the market again. I'm a heroine, so I've got the exclusive listing.” She grinned at him, as though bringing him a present. “No one is going to come into this house unless they're with me.”
“That's good,” he said. “But I can't stay here. Are they still doing traffic stops?”
“No,” she said. “They think the fourth man escaped with the jewelry somewhere else.”
“Fourth man?”
“They searched the house all day Saturday and didn't find the jewelry, so there must be a fourth man.”
“All right.”
“They think the three who came here gave this fourth man the jewelry somewhere along the way, and I'm pretty sure they think he's somebody locally prominent, but nobody's saying so.”
Parker stretched his lips in a grin. “Now it's an inside job,” he said.
“Exactly,” she said, grinning back, but then her expression clouded, and she said, “Except for that sheriff. Farley.”
“He's still around?”
“He's decided,” she told him, “that the fourth man was Daniel Parmitt, and the other three got him out of the hospital because they needed him in their plan. Nobody else cares about Daniel Parmitt or thinks he had anything to do with the robbery, only Farley. He thinks Parmitt had a boat or something. He keeps trying to find somebody to tell that story to, but the police here think he's just a small-town jerk from the Everglades.”
“He's a small-town jerk, but he's sharp,” Parker said. “What story did you tell?”
“I sai
d I thought this house had been abandoned, because there was never anybody around, and I wanted the opportunity to sell it if it was on the market, and I even thought you might be a prospect.”
“Parmitt.”
“Right. And I came here, and it was unlocked, and there was nobody home. And I was still looking around when these three terrifying men in wet suits came in and kidnapped me. And I didn't see them carrying any jewels, then or ever.”
“Good.”
“They held me overnight, and then they gave me breakfast in the morning, and I found that little gun taped under the table, I have no idea where it came from. There was still tape on the gun when I gave it to the police, and they found the rest under the table.”
“Good.”
“I told them I was afraid to touch it at first, but then the police arrived, and I thought they were going to go away again and not rescue me, so that's why I pulled the gun out to shoot it to attract their attention.”
“That's good,” Parker said. “And you're a local, solid reputation, the story's good enough, so it might be true.”
“They believe me,” she insisted.
He shrugged. “Why not? What do they think about the guns being rigged?”
She looked confused. “Rigged?”
“Their guns didn't shoot,” Parker pointed out.
“That's right,” she said in wonder, “I forgot about that. I thought I was dead when that man pointed that rifle at me, but then it didn't shoot.”
“None of them did,” Parker said. “What do the police say?”
“Nothing. There hasn't been a word about that.”
Parker thought it over. “Did nobody notice? Everything going by so fast. Or somebody noticed, and they decided, why should we tell everybody we killed three guys that couldn't shoot back? Okay, just so they're not making a big deal out of it.”
“They're not.”
He said, “You know that bank account of mine in San Antonio.”
She shook her head. “I tried,” she said, “on Monday.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I went through a lot of trouble,” she told him. “I wanted some money.”
“Sure.”
“The man was very nice,” she said, “but he told me there was a temporary hold on that account, and he couldn't ship me any more money.”
So Parmitt was gone for good. “All right. You've got some of the ten grand left.”
“Some,” she admitted.
“You've still got my clothing sizes. I need some Daniel Parmitt clothes, clothes I don't look like an ex-con in.”
“I bet you are an ex-con,” she said.
“Polo shirt. Khakis. Tassel loafers. Sunglasses. White yachting cap.”
“I love your disguises,” she said.
“Wait here,” he told her, and stood, and went into the kitchen, where the circuit breaker box stood on the wall beside the window over the sink. He opened the metal cover and snaked out the painted wooden one-by-four running underneath it that he'd loosened the other day. Under there, inside the wall, the three jewelry pouches hung from the Romex wire cables leading out of the box. He removed them, put everything back, and carried them to the front hall, where Leslie abruptly got to her feet at the sight of them, as though she'd seen the Queen walk by.
“Is that it?”
“All of it. Will it fit in your bag?”
Like most career women, Leslie's brown leather bag was outsize, more utilitarian than fashionable. She said, “Let me just get a couple of these maps and things out of here. You're giving it all to me?”
“You're holding it,” he told her. “You take it home, you hide it someplace where your mother and your sister won't find it, and someday soon, a few weeks or a month from now, a guy's gonna come around and say he's from Daniel Parmitt. Only first I'll phone you, and I'll tell you what name he's using and what he looks like.”
She was very solemn, nodding at each thing he said. “All right.”
“He'll take the stuff away,” Parker said. “He and I'll work out a price. Then he'll come back and give you one-third. Okay?”
“One-third.” She was still awed. “How much would that be?”
“We're guessing four hundred thousand for you, might be less.”
“Not much less.”
“No.”
She hefted the bag, her maps and Filofax in her other hand. “You're trusting me with this?”
“It isn't trust, Leslie,” he said. “What are you gonna do with it? Go to a pawnshop?”
“I think there's a reward.”
“Not four hundred thousand. And then you'd have to explain where you got it. No, you'll hold on to it, and you'll take the four.”
“I certainly will,” she said. The awe was being replaced by a broad grin. “This sure worked out, didn't it?”
“For some of us. Can you come back tonight around eight? With my new clothes.”
“Sure.”
“And drive me down to Miami.”
“Okay. Is that where Claire is?”
He said, “You don't want to know about Claire, Leslie.”
“Of course I do,” she said.
He looked at her, and decided to finish that part once and for all. “Claire is the only house I ever want to be in,” he said. “All her doors and windows are open, but only for me.”
A blush climbed Leslie's cheeks, and she stepped back, looking confused, as though a door had just slammed in her face. “You're probably anxious to see her again,” she said, mumbling, going through the motions. “I'll see you at eight.”
8
Except, no. Not ten minutes after Leslie left, with Parker once more seated on the upstairs terrace floor, back against the wall of the house, he heard the sound of the front door, and when he stood up to look, it was Farley. The Snake River sheriff, in uniform, right hand on his holstered firearm, creeping cautiously into the house, looking every which way at once.
Followed Leslie. Thought she'd lead him to Parmitt, or to somebody else connected with the jewelry robbery. But giving Parker an opportunity to deal with some of the problems he still had.
It wasn't possible to go through the house, Farley was too alert for that. Parker went down the corner of the wall from the terrace, the way he'd come up from the lower terrace the first time he'd entered this house, and moved as fast as he could around to the front, where he saw Farley's official sheriff s car parked by the front door.
It wasn't locked, and the driver's window was open so it wouldn't get too hot and stuffy while Farley was away. Parker got into the passenger seat in front, read the owner's manual for a while, and twenty minutes later Farley came out of the house, grimacing in frustration. When he saw Parker seated in his car he at first looked enraged, then triumphant, as though he'd been proved right about something.
He came around and got behind the wheel and said, “You were in there.”
“In where? In that house? No, I've been out here. I followed you. I wanted to talk to you.”
Farley's glare meant no-nonsense-pal. He said, “You were in there, and the Mackenzie woman came to see you there.”
“Who? Oh, Leslie. No, I haven't seen Leslie since she came to visit me at the hospital.” Parker made a crooked-face grin and said, “I think I scared her that time.”
“She helped you escape from the hospital.”
“What, that woman? Don't be stupid.”
Farley didn't like being called stupid, but he knew he wasn't on secure ground here, so he said, “Have it your own way,” and turned to start the engine.
Mild, Parker said, “Where we going?”
“Snake River, of course,” Farley said as he thumbed his window shut. “I'm arresting you.”
“For what?”
“For running away from the hospital.”
“That's no crime,” Parker told him. “Ask the hospital if there's any charges they want to press against me.”
The engine was running, the air conditioner blowing its cold b
reeze into the car, but Farley hadn't put it in gear. He glowered at Parker, thinking it over, and then said, “You're mixed up in that big jewel robbery.”
“Wrong again.”
“Don't tell me. I know.”
“In the first place,” Parker said, “that isn't your case, and in the second place, nobody who is working on that case thinks I had anything to do with it, and you know it.”
“They're wrong,” Farley said.
“Everybody's wrong but you.”
“It happens,” Farley said.
Parker nodded, looking at him. “Happen often?”
“Oh, fuck you, Parmitt,” Farley snapped, and pointed an angry finger at him. “And that's another thing. You aren't any Daniel Parmitt.”
“Everybody knows that,” Parker said. As Farley gaped at him, he gestured at the house. “Why don't we go sit in there and get comfortable? There's nobody home, is there?”
“It's empty, it's got no furniture in it, as you damn well know.”
“Oh, really?” Parker looked at the house, shrugged and said, “Then we might as well stay here. For a cop, you're goddam incurious.”
“About what?” Farley demanded. He was ready at this point to take offense at just about anything.
“At why I'm sitting in your car,” Parker told him.
That took Farley aback. He thought about it and said, “You didn't want me following you.”
“You weren't following me, I was following you.”
“Oh, goddammit, Parmitt, John Doe, whoever the hell you are, all right. Why are you in my car, if not to get arrested for a dozen different things I can think of?”
“Don't embarrass yourself, Farley,” Parker advised him. “If you had any case at all, I'd be in cuffs right now.”
Farley sat back against his door to look Parker up and down. “You've been getting me riled up on purpose,” he decided.
“You started it on your own.”
“I did. So you did it like a firebreak, I guess, to calm me down. Okay, I'm calm. Why are you in my car?”
“Because I want to know how you're doing with the guy who's hiring people to kill me.”
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