A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  It took Pastings a while to speak. “How much of this does Scott know?”

  Cannonball ran things over in his head and decided to tell the truth. “None of it.”

  “What do you want?” The banker's voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I wanna do what's best for Scott and his momma. And I wanna come upstairs and talk to you about it without you tryin' to sell me any more Alabama swampland.”

  “I can't talk here in the office, Mr. Walker. I'm sure you understand.”

  “I'm smellin' the stink of swamp water. I warned you about that. We're talkin' in your office, or we're talkin' at the po-lice station.” He paused for emphasis. “You think I'm gettin' in a car and goin' off somewhere with you . . . Shit. I ain't that stupid.”

  “No, Mr. Walker. You're many things, but you are not stupid.” He sighed. “Come on up. I'll tell my secretary to clear my schedule.” The man's voice broke, and Cannonball could have sworn he was crying. “You're going to be reasonable, aren't you? I mean, we're going to be able to work this out, right?”

  Cannonball shook his head at the bustling foot traffic in the lobby of John Pastings's bank. “I'll be up in two minutes.”

  Cannonball's old Caddy droned through the North Carolina countryside. All around the speeding car, fresh leaves and the tender shoots of new grass shone beneath blue skies. Inside, Scott and Natalie rode in strained silence.

  Back at the Havenswood Arms, Scott had hurriedly tossed her cases and his backpack into the trunk within minutes after Bobby left their room. He had not stopped to report Click's death to the police. Natalie had mentioned it once, just as the old Caddy passed the southernmost city limits. Scott had simply asked, “What do you want me to tell them?”

  Natalie had opened her mouth to answer, but there was no answer. At least, there was no answer that wouldn't stop them in their tracks—no answer that wouldn't leave Kate Billings triumphant and also land both Scott and Natalie in a jail cell awaiting extradition to Massachusetts.

  So they had ridden in silence.

  Almost three hours passed before Scott said, “We're almost there.”

  Natalie nodded. Minutes passed. “How far?”

  “I think about twelve miles to Buckshead.”

  Natalie picked up her laptop and got it going. “We're supposed to call thirty minutes before we get there. The development company will send a boat.”

  “Can you . . .” His words trailed off when he heard the soft beeps of Natalie dialing up the North Carolina offices of Hunter & Petring.

  She spoke softly and professionally with an overly happy sales rep, and then dropped the phone back into her purse. “Just keep going the way you're heading. I've got directions through the little town to a safe parking area.” She powered down her laptop and put it away. “We're lucky. The boat was already on this side. Some guy named Frank will meet us at the parking lot and take us over.” She hesitated. “I think I mentioned to you that there's a party tonight at Charles Hunter's office.”

  Scott looked out at the idyllic landscape spinning past his window. “I don't remember . . .” He glanced over at Natalie. “We've got to get past this.”

  “Right.” Her voice was filled with disgust. “We've got to get past running out when Dr. Reynolds was gunned down right in front of us. And we've got to get past your brother killing Click. And, let's not forget, we've got to get past the murder charges you've got hanging over your head in Boston. We'll just . . .” She struggled for words that didn't come. “We'll just forget about all that.”

  “All that is why we're here, Natalie. I may have been wrong to come to you in the first place, but no one twisted your arm . . .”

  “Shit!”

  “What now?”

  “I don't want to hear that. I'm mad, and I'm sick. And your logic is just making me madder.” She leaned forward to peer through the windshield. “Turn right at the service station, there. The parking lot's a mile up on the left.”

  Scott wheeled the long Caddy around the intersection. “Is there anything I can do?”

  She cussed again. “You know, a couple's first big argument isn't supposed to be over whether to report a murder to the police.”

  Scott looked over and saw a twisted smile on Natalie's face. “Mind if I say something mushy?”

  “Shit.” She shook her head. “Later, okay?”

  Scott pointed to a sign that read PARKING FOR RESIDENTS AND GUESTS OF SPINNAKER ISLAND; then in smaller print, ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED, MUN. ORD. 11-2-36. “I guess we're here.”

  Natalie pointed to a giant, bearded man in khakis and a blue windbreaker. “And,” she said, “I guess that's Frank.”

  Scott was surprised that island transportation was an open Boston Whaler and not a ferry. The trip, however, proved the wisdom of that choice. A storm front had approached from the west, moving in a northeasterly direction across the forests and cities of Georgia and South Carolina before hitting the Outer Banks. The front lip of that storm churned the channel and slapped the Whaler's bow as they made for Spinnaker Island.

  As the tough little boat dipped its way eastward, Natalie called out to the captain. “Will they have a party in this?”

  He yelled out over the wind. “Ma'am?”

  Now she raised her voice. “There's a storm coming.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Will they have the party tonight if it storms?”

  He shook his furry face. “Not for me to say, ma'am. But I'll get you there safe enough. Don't worry about that.”

  Natalie nodded and moved to a seat in the stern. Scott joined her. “What's wrong?”

  She shook her head. “If it storms and they don't have the party, that's going to be a problem. I was counting on the party to get Charles Hunter alone and talk to him about Kate. We need to warn him as soon as possible. I also thought we'd be able to find out some things without having to do quite so much snooping.”

  Scott looked out at the dark line of the approaching barrier island. “Sometimes snooping is good.”

  “I guess.” Natalie pulled her coat tight around her neck. “But with Bobby around, I'm starting to worry about what might be happening to people when we don't have our eyes on them.”

  “Our eyes didn't help Dr. Reynolds.” Something caught the corner of Scott's eye, and he walked forward to stand beside Captain Frank. “What's that?” Scott pointed, and the captain looked along his outstretched arm.

  The bearded man shook his head. “Small boat. Just somebody getting in a little fishin'.”

  Scott squinted into the wind. “In this?”

  The captain laughed. “Hell, man. This ain't nothin'. Just a little chop. Don't worry, folks around here been fishin' these waters their whole lives. Gets any worse, he'll know to head in.”

  Scott looked hard at the distant boat. “He's headed toward the island.”

  “Like I said.” The captain's patience began to wear. “He'll turn around sure enough if the weather turns bad.”

  Scott nodded and walked back to rejoin Natalie in the stern.

  CHAPTER 43

  Scott Thomas sat on a teal bedspread and stared at his feet. They seemed particularly ugly to him. Not that feet are ever pretty.

  Natalie interrupted his aesthetic evaluation. “What's the matter?”

  “I don't know.” He stood and walked to look out a window awash with silver rivulets. They heard thunder rolling in the distance. “Something.”

  “I understand about not reporting Bobby to the police in Virginia. It's just not time yet.”

  “No. It's not.”

  “Scott? What's bothering you? What specifically?”

  His eyes were fixed on the streaming panes, not the windswept Atlantic. “A couple of things. One is . . . This is weird, but I'm not sure I believe Bobby killed Click. That stuff about having his hand in the trunk . . . Jeez, maybe he is that crazy. Maybe . . . Hell, I don't know.”

  “It could be that you don't want to believe it,” Natalie said softl
y.

  He nodded, and a heavy silence settled over them. Finally, Scott said, “I keep thinking about Bobby when we were little. He was a tough little kid. Used to butt me with his head when he got mad.” He smiled at the memory. “And smart. Bobby could read when he was three. He had these huge brown eyes.” His voice cracked, and Natalie pretended not to notice. “How do eyes like that turn black? It's like the fire . . .” The words didn't come.

  Natalie interrupted to pull him out of it. “What was the second thing?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said a couple of things are bothering you.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Scott cleared his throat. “Timing.”

  “Timing?”

  “Timing.” He turned to find her eyes, and a tired smile crept over his face. “I need to think.”

  “So, think.” Natalie stepped forward, raised up on her toes, and kissed him on the nose. “Heck, tell me what's bothering you and I'll think, too.”

  “No party tonight, right?” He reached out and circled her waist with his hands.

  “That's what the saleslady said. But we're invited to Charles Hunter's home tomorrow night for dinner. Kind of to make up for it, I think.”

  “Okay.” He looked down into her eyes. “I'm going to do some doodling on a piece of paper. It's how I think. Could you have another look at the e-mails I printed off at the hospital? There were a couple from Click to an address outside the psych department.”

  “Right. I couldn't find anything on those. They didn't follow usual protocol for assigning in-house addresses. And yes, I'd be glad to have another look.” She smiled and reached up to brush his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Cannonball told you to slow down and think. So, we're slowing down and thinking.” Natalie pulled away and walked over to rummage through her case. “Do they have room service in this place?”

  Charles Hunter hung up the phone in his office just as Carol Petring strode in. With the quiet familiarity of people who work together for hours a day, he went on with his thoughts while she perched a hip on a metal stool and started flipping through drawings on his drafting table.

  Seconds ticked by as Carol perused drawings and Charles simply stared into space. Finally, his eyes snapped into focus as if he'd made up his mind about something. “What are you looking for?”

  Carol didn't look up. “I'll find it.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “Sure.”

  As she walked out, he said, “Close the door behind you.” It wasn't rude. Just familiar.

  Alone again, Charles looked down at the two names he'd just printed in architectural lettering on the pad in front of him. The letters were all caps, the slant and angles of each stroke a mix of flair and precision. Charles drew rectangles in the corners of the pad and connected each by a straight line, then he scratched diagonals across each connecting line. He was trying to make a decision. Finally, he picked up the phone and spoke to his assistant. “Maria, get me Michael Marion at Boston Hospital. He's chairman of their management board.”

  A few minutes later, his phone beeped and he picked up. Mike Marion's voice came over the line. “Charles?”

  “Mike, how are you?”

  “Fine, fine.” His voice held no affection for anyone. “What can I do for you?”

  Charles picked up the note pad from his desk. “I've just this minute learned that two of your employees—Scott Thomas and a woman named Natalie Friedman—are here on the island.”

  Marion's words came quickly now. “You should call the police immediately. Do you know . . . Well, of course you know who Thomas is. Apparently this Friedman woman was with Thomas the other night when Dr. Phillip Reynolds was gunned down right outside the hospital. The police actually interviewed them at the scene and let them go.”

  Charles had turned his chair to face the big bayside window. Charcoal clouds rolled toward him in layered bunches, casting shadows across dark water. “Right, I'll make that call. But tell me first, what's the status of the investigation into my wife's murder?”

  “I, uh, really don't know details, Charles. Just—”

  “Then give me someone who does.” He paused. “I need that information now, Mike. Do you understand?”

  The chairman of Boston Hospital could afford to register irritation at being ordered around by Charles Hunter. He could not, however, afford to ignore that order. After all, he was speaking with a man who had donated his services to design an award-winning children's wing. “I'll have someone call you within the hour.” Mike Marion's words were distinct and well spaced, conveying irritation combined with power. He might have to comply with Hunter's request, but he wanted it known that he had the power to make people jump in Boston.

  “Thank you, Mike.” Charles tried to smooth things out a bit. “This is a difficult situation.”

  “Right” was all the other man said. Then he hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later, the hospital's general counsel was on the phone with Hunter. It was not a comforting report. The investigation was wavering. Scott Thomas had given a detailed account of his movements and theories when he'd been arrested in Boston. And, according to the officer in charge of the investigation, Thomas's story was checking out. Worse. Some assistant DA named Anne Foucher had taken a personal interest in the case. Word was, Thomas had so pissed off this Foucher woman that she was on a vendetta. Unfortunately, “The more she digs, the more loose ends and problems she finds. And”—the attorney paused—“I'm hesitant to mention this . . .”

  “Mention what?” Hunter's irritation was growing.

  “Mike Marion tells me that Scott Thomas is there on the island with a woman named Natalie Friedman. She was arrested with Thomas in Boston.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, one of my contacts in the Boston PD says there's a rumor in the department that Friedman struck some kind of deal with them.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Allegedly, she agreed to keep an eye on Thomas for the police. But I don't even know if the rumor is fact. And, even if it is, Friedman could've simply told the cops whatever they wanted to hear just to get back out on the street. That's why I wasn't sure whether to tell you about it.”

  Hunter swiveled around to face his view of the Atlantic. His head was swimming; the room seemed to be closing in. He thought of Scott Thomas sitting in a guest cottage just up the road; he thought of what had been brought into his perfect paradise; and his hands began to shake. “What would be the reaction of the cops if Thomas just fell off the face of the earth?”

  “I'm sure you don't mean . . .”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Well, this is just my opinion, Mr. Hunter. But if something happened to Scott Thomas right now, I think we'd all—the hospital, Kate Billings, and even you—we'd all find ourselves in the middle of a giant shit storm.”

  Obviously this man knew that Kate was working for him, and that did not make Charles happy. He'd never even heard this lawyer's name, and the guy knew who Charles had baby-sitting his daughter. He rolled the new information around in his head and said, “Thank you.”

  “It's just possible that Scott Thomas didn't kill your wife, Mr. Hunter. Misdirected revenge is a waste.”

  “Why don't you have that printed on your business cards?” He slammed the receiver down.

  Thoughts tumbled through his mind—snapshots of Kate nursing him after he kicked Patricia's ashes into the Atlantic, gauzy mental pictures of the nanny tickling Sarah at dinner, slow-motion reels of that beautiful young woman pulling away her nightgown and lowering herself onto him. He thought of Patricia and what she had done to Trey, to his son. Everyone had forgotten about that. The bitch had checked into Boston Hospital after his only son had drowned. Goddammit! The woman had destroyed Trey's life. Ruined his life. She kept ruining his life. Goddammit!

  He looked up to find his assistant standing in the open door to his office. She looked frightened. “Are you okay?”

  Charles froze in place. Somehow
he had gotten to his feet and gotten his hands on a brass desk lamp. The big plate-glass window overlooking the Atlantic was spider-webbed with cracks; the lamp lay at the base of the window. He had no memory of throwing the lamp, not even of hearing it crash against the glass.

  “Charles? Are you okay? Can I get you something?”

  He struggled to control his breathing as the room swirled around him. “It's okay, Maria. It's okay.” He decided on a partial truth. “I just got a call about the murder investigation in Boston. It's . . . upsetting.”

  Maria walked forward. “Of course it is. Sit down, Charles. I'll bring you a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you.” As she turned to leave, he sank into the chair. “Maria?”

  “Sir?”

  “Is my guest here?”

  “The contractor from Boston?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “That's the one.”

  “Yes, sir. We put him in the Beckers' place. They're on the mainland for a few days, and you didn't want him in the guest cottages.”

  “Right. Could you get me that number? And, uh, you can forget the coffee. Just the number, please.”

  Maria wrinkled her forehead and said, “Yes, sir. Won't be a minute.”

  Scott sat at a painted wooden table on the porch of their cottage. Cold mist sprayed over the legal pad in his lap. Wind ruffled the pages, and he absentmindedly smoothed out his notes. He'd been at it for a couple of hours. The sky was dark. A yellow bulb burned on the wall behind him.

  “Got anything?”

  He looked up bleary eyed. “Something, yeah. Nothing concrete.”

  Natalie had put on fresh makeup and a heavy sweater. She pulled the sweater tight around her ribs as the crossed the porch to sit opposite Scott at the little table. Leaning forward, she said, “Tell me.”

  Scott looked up into her bright, intelligent eyes. “You look happy.”

  “I am. Yours truly has had some success with the e-mails. But I want to hear first what you've come up with.”