He thought about Marcy. He worked on his breathing. In. Out. In.
Out. There was no movement on the roadway. No sound in the pine grove except the sound his heart made pumping too fast. The crescent moon had gone a little higher above the horizon. The sky was a little darker.
Okay, he thought, here we go.
SIXTY-TWO.
Suitcase Simpson thought it looked like there was a festival at the Paradise end of the ruine'd bridge. Five television trucks were jammed in as close as the police would let them, their funny-looking antennas sticking up like the dead limbs of an old evergreen. Five television news people, three male and two female, were fighting for stand-up space in front of the wreckage, while their camera men were jostling each other for a better angle on the twisted ruins of the bridge, and the sound people were trying to get enough ambient noise for authenticity without drowning out the news person. There was a high volume of crowd hubbub.
And the surf rolling up on the bare rocks was loud.
All three Paradise Police cruisers were parked near the verge of the channel, and half a dozen blue and gray State Police cruisers were scattered behind them. A big State Police mobile operations van sat in the middle of the roadway back of the cars with antennas sticking out of it variously. Both the Paradise fire trucks were there, along with the town ambulance. There were fire trucks and ambulances from three other towns, the crews sitting on their trucks staring at the place where the bridge had been.
And there were a number of smaller vans with radio call letters on the sides parked back along the roadway. Much of Paradise was gathered behind the sawhorse barricades, and yellow crime scene tape stretched across the operations scene. A lot of them had Walkman-type radios with ear phones and were listening to the description being broadcast by the half dozen radio reporters, who were less ostentatious than the TV guys.
Suitcase was walking the perimeter of what he thought of, for lack of something more descriptive, as the crime scene. There was no reason to walk it. But he didn't know what else to do. Danforth, the SWAT team guy, was in considerable charge in the mobile unit, and some lieutenant commander from the Coast Guard had shown up wearing a pistol belt and side arm and talking about a cutter on the way from Boston. There were several technician types working the radio and phones and a computer that Suitcase didn't see the need for, and it was crowded, so he took a walk. He could make sure the crowd didn't push through the barriers and get in the way. Might as well do something.
"Suit, what happened?"
"Bridge blew up."
"I can see that, for cris sake
"So what are you asking me for?"
"Suit, anyone killed?"
"Too soon to know."
Two guys he played softball with were sitting in a Ford 150, drinking beer.
"Hey, Suit, looks like a long day, babe. Want one?"
Suitcase shook his head.
"Keep the cans in the truck," he said.
He felt bad that Jesse hadn't taken him when he went to the island. And he was very relieved that he didn't have to go. Which made him more unhappy because it made him question his courage. In the distance, he could hear more sirens. He wondered what other vehicle could possibly be arriving in a great hurry to sit and wait. He saw the Hopkins boys smirking and jostling on a rock outcropping near the edge of the water. Too bad they weren't on the fucking bridge when it went. He tried to call Molly Crane on his radio and got the fire dispatcher.
"She ain't here," the dispatcher said.
"She told me to take her calls."
"Where'd she go?"
"I don't know, but she was wearing a vest and she was in a big rush."
"Shit," Suitcase said.
"What's happening down there, Suit?"
"I got no idea," Suitcase said.
SIXTY-THREE.
It was fully dark now. Inside the restaurant, Macklin had lit some candles. Outside, the only light was the small moon, which made thin bright traces on the dark water. Crow thought he could make out the shape of Freddie Costa's boat lingering out past the little jut of rock to his right, but it was only an area of thicker darkness and he wasn't sure. It was forty-eight minutes until Freddie could get in close enough. Crow turned and found JD standing near the back door of the restaurant, holding his shotgun.
"It's me, JD," Crow said as he walked toward him.
"How much time?"
"
"Bout three quarters of an hour," Crow said.
"This is fucking spooky," JD said.
"I mean here we are, and they.
know we're here and nobody's doing nothing about it, and we're just hanging around."
"Cops can't get in touch with us," Crow said.
"Jimmy didn't give them his cell phone number. They don't dare fly over because of the hostages."
"You don't think they got boats? Out a ways where we can't see them?"
"This ain't the FBI, JD. This is a small-town police department."
"You don't think the state cops will show up? You don't think they'll bring in the Coast Guard?"
"Sooner or later," Crow said. He was watching the darkness as he talked.
"And then what?"
"Then we got the hostages."
"You think we can pull this off, Crow?"
"Sure."
"So why am I so worried, and you're not?"
Crow smiled in the darkness.
"Well aside from me being me, and you being you-you got to trust the team. You got to trust Freddie to get in here and pick us up and get us out of here, even if they got a boat out there looking for us. You got to trust me to handle trouble if it comes, and Jimmy to think this through."
"Jimmy's fucking crazy," JD said.
"He was great before this thing started to go down. Now he's fucking coming apart."
"Still got to trust him. He's in charge. You unnerstand? We trusted you on the wiring. We trusted Fran on the boom. Now you got to trust us. Nobody's any good alone. You trust yourself. You trust your crew."
"Why didn't Jimmy time this closer?" JD said.
"Waiting like this is weird."
Crow took a Bowie knife from the back of his belt and held it up so JD could look at it.
"You take a good knife," Crow said.
"You need to grind the edge of it regular, or it gets dull."
"What's that?" JD said.
"A fucking Apache slogan or something?"
"Or something," Crow said.
With a movement so quick that JD never saw it, he cut JD's throat, moving sideways as he did so to avoid the blood. A sigh of escaping air was the only sound JD made before he fell forward facedown on the ground and jerked briefly, like a slaughtered chicken, and was still. Crow put the knife blade into the earth a couple of times to clean it and then wiped the dirt off on his pants leg.
He put the knife back and took out his gun.
"Fran," he yelled.
"Yo."
"Get over here."
Crow could hear Fran's footsteps as he came on the run. When he came around the corner, Crow shot him in the chest three times.
The bullets spun Fran several staggering steps sideways, and the shotgun he had been carrying sailed off into the darkness. Fran fell on his back on top of JD.
Without looking at the dead men, Crow uncocked the pistol, dropped the magazine from the handle, and put the gun back in its holster. He took some loose ammunition from his pocket and fed three fresh rounds into the magazine. Then he took the gun back out, slid the magazine back into the handle, and bolstered the gun again. He paid no attention to the two bodies lying together in the weak moonlight. He looked again out at the water and then walked down to the edge of it where it slid tamely over the stony beach.
He could see Freddie's boat now. It had moved past the rock jut and followed the tide in. It was still beyond the boulder that marked the farthest point they could wade. Crow turned and walked back into the restaurant. Macklin looked at him as he came into the roma
ntic glow of candle light. Crow held up two fingers.
Macklin nodded and smiled and turned to the hostages.
"Not to worry, ladies, just a little downsizing," he said.
SIXTY-FOUR.
Molly Crane was alone at the desk when the call came in. She automatically registered the phone number that flashed up on the caller ID screen.
"Chief Stone, please," a woman's voice!
said.
"He's not here," Molly said.
"This is Sergeant Crane. May I help you?" ;
"Where is he?"
"Official business," Molly said.
"May I have your name, please?"
"Tell Chief Stone that if he ever wants to see his sweetheart alive, he'll make sure that nothing happens to Jimmy Macklin."
"And what sweetheart might that be?" Molly said.
As she talked, she was punching up the phone number index on the computer.
"Abby Taylor," the voice said.
"Anything happens to Jimmy Macklin, she dies."
"Would you like to make some sort of a deal?" Molly said.
"You let Jimmy go. I let Abby go."
The phone number came up on the screen. The woman was calling from Abby's phone. That was pretty brazen.
"May I speak with Abby, please?"
"And don't try to find me. I see a cop, and I'll kill her anyway."
"How do I know she's all right?" Molly said.
The woman didn't answer and the connection broke.
"Shit," Molly said aloud.
Was she really staying right in Abby's house? She called the mobile operations truck at the bridge. No answer. She shook her head once, then left the switchboard, went to her locker, and slipped into a bullet-proof vest. Then she went next door to the fire station.
Buzz Morrow was the only fireman there. Everyone else was at the explosion site.
"I'm leaving the station," she said.
"Can you cover the switchboard?"
"I'm supposed to stand by here," Buzz said.
"You got no trucks," Molly said.
"What happens if someone does report a fire. You run out and pee on it?"
"Good point," Buzz said.
"Where you going?"
She didn't answer him. She left the fire station at a half run and went to the parking lot behind the station. There were no squad cars. She stopped at her own car, a Honda Accord, took out her service pistol and racked a 9-mm cartridge up into the chamber. She let the hammer back down, put the pistol back in its holster, took a deep breath, and got in her car. She had no siren, but the town was nearly deserted and she was able to go very fast through the empty streets. She went past Abby's street slowly and looked down it. Nothing unusual. No car in front of Abby's house. She turned the corner on the next street and circled the block slowly, staying off Abby's street. Nothing unusual. She saw a dark green Mercedes sedan near the corner. But Mercedes sedans were not unusual in Paradise. She parked on the street behind and a little bit downhill from Abby's house. Her breath was shallow and coming very fast.
When she shut off the engine, she tried to slow down, relax the stomach muscles, breathe in deeply. She let her shoulders sag and closed her eyes for a minute.
Okay, okay. You're a cop, just like the other guys. You always knew you might have to do this. The fucking truth is, though, you always thought you'd be doing this with a couple of the guys.
She shook her head as if to clear it and got out of her car. She locked it and put the keys in the pocket of her uniform pants. Her pistol belt felt heavy. She hitched it higher. There was a radio on her belt and a can of Mace and some handcuffs and two extra magazines for her service pistol. The loop for the flashlight was empty.
She didn't have a come along. Or a night stick. She had a short leather sap in her right-hand back pocket. From the trunk of her Honda, she took the jack handle and carried it in her left hand.
Okay, she thought again. Okay.
She walked quietly through the neatly trimmed yard of a narrow white clapboard little house with a gambrel roof, stopped at the garage, and looked carefully into Abby's backyard. She wished she'd changed her clothes. She felt as obvious as a nudist in her uniform. The house was silent. There was no sign of life. The window shades upstairs were drawn. The caller could have removed Abby, right after she called. But it would be dangerous to try and kidnap someone in a crowded neighborhood in the middle of the day. Of course it was also dangerous to stay in the victim's house. But most people weren't conscious of caller ID. And the caller would assume that holding a hostage would protect her. And maybe the caller thought it was the place so obvious that no one would look there.
Or maybe the caller was stupid. Or desperate. Or maybe it was a hoax. Abby could be at work, entirely unaware. Molly should have called her office. But she didn't know where Abby worked, and there was no one to ask, and everything was moving too fast and here she was looking at Abby's backyard.
The house was built on a small slope so that it stood high on its foundation in the back. There was a door to the cellar and a window on either side of the door. There was no cover between her and the house. But it was only about twenty feet. There's no way to sneak, Molly thought. If I'm the perp I'm walking around the house looking out windows, keeping an eye out for the cops. If I'm right, I got three chances in four that she's looking out the wrong window. I either make it or I don't. It's the best I can do. This was where normally you radioed for backup. Today there was no backup. She took in as much air as she could and blew it out and sprinted for the back of the house. No one shot her. Nothing happened. She crouched against the high foundation in relative safety. She was pretty sure she couldn't be seen from the house.
Crawling to stay out of sight, she went past the cellar window and tried the cellar door. Locked. She looked up at the cellar window. The one on the left was locked; she could see the latch. The one on the right had no latch. She reached over and pushed up on one of the mullions. The window didn't move. She took the flat end of the tire iron and slipped it under the bottom of the window and pried up. The window went up without much noise. Molly dropped the tire iron and waited. No sound. No movement. She slid as close to the edge of the window as she could and peered around it. There was a laundry room. The laundry room door was closed. No one was in the laundry room. Molly stood and boosted the window wide open and climbed through. She stood in the laundry room and listened. The house was quiet. But then she heard footsteps on the floor above. She stood motionless. The footsteps moved away. She strained to hear them and realized as she listened that she had been right. It sounded like someone walking from one room to another, looking out the windows.
Crouching next to the washer and dryer, Molly took off her shoes and socks. It made her pants too long, and she rolled the cuffs up over her calves. Then she straightened and took out the gun.
She'd never fired it at anyone. She was a good shot on the range.
She opened the laundry room door. It was dimmer in the rest of the cellar. The cellar stairs ran up from the front, the oil burner to the right. She could see the electrical board on the wall to her left.
Barefooted and silent she went across the cellar and up the stairs.
Policy was never to cock the piece until you were going to shoot.
Standing on the top cellar stair, struggling to take in enough oxygen to keep up with her heart rate, Molly looked at the service pistol for a moment and then carefully pulled the hammer back. Fuck policy! She put her hand on the knob and listened again. She heard the footsteps get closer, moving slowly. Then they went past the door and faded into another room. Molly opened the door and stepped through in a crouch, the pistol aimed in the direction of the footsteps.
Bright. She was in a front hall. There were glass lights on either side of the front door, and sunshine streamed through the glass.
Dust moats danced in the light. She saw no one. She stayed where she was frozen in her crouch, holding the gun with both hands, her fin
ger on the trigger. Not policy either. Then she heard movement in the next room. She moved toward it silently, almost without volition, feeling nothing now, not even fear, her concentration so focused ahead of her that nothing else registered. In the living room, looking out the window, was a well-built blond woman in a black sweatsuit and white sneakers, carrying a black shoulder bag. Molly took two soundless barefoot steps into the room, and the woman became aware of her. She half turned, fumbling at her shoulder bag.
Robert B Parker - Stone 2 - Trouble in Paradise Page 21