Cut and Run

by Ridley Pearson

  “Deputy marshal,” Larson corrected. “And no, I didn’t tell you.”

  “Hey, I can keep it to myself.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Larson said. “If one of them left the island, would we have any way to know it?”

  Montgomery didn’t answer, at least not outright. Instead, he signaled the bartender, who delivered a phone to him. He dialed a three-digit number and waited for an answer on the other end. “Charlie,” he said, not bothering to introduce himself, “is the Valentis’ boat in or out?” He paused and listened into the receiver, nodded his head, and said, “What? Just a couple minutes ago, am I right?” Paused again. “Thought so.” He hung up, pushed the phone away, and worked on his drink. “One of your guys took the boat out not five minutes ago.”

  “Hence the changed dinner order.” Larson checked his cell phone. No reception. He made change with the bartender and used the hotel’s only pay phone to call Tommy Tomelson, but got voice mail. He tried Hope’s phone next and got a busy circuit. The recorded voice told him to try later.

  When Larson returned to the bar, Montgomery was leaning back and drawing a pattern on the sweating glass with a stubby finger. Larson complained about the cell phone service on the island.

  “It’s hit-and-miss over there,” Montgomery admitted. “There’s one carrier that’s better than the others, but for the life of me I don’t remember which one it is.”

  “How soon are those meals being delivered?”

  A tanned older woman with the stretched skin of too many face lifts eyed Larson over a clear cocktail. He wondered what it said about him when seventy-year-olds were making eyes at him. He smiled awkwardly back at her.

  “Every night, seven o’clock.” He checked his watch. “You got ten minutes to kill.”

  Larson didn’t appreciate the terminology. “Who’s delivering?”

  “Probably Orlando tonight.”

  “Don’t tell him anything about this. We want the delivery to go just as it does any other night.”

  “Got it,” Montgomery said. “South end of the beach, there’s a road to your right. Follow it to the end. The Sand Dollar is second on the left. It’s marked. You want my cart?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “ Orlando ’ll drive a cart down there a couple minutes before seven,” the old guy said. “Make sure he’s gone before you do anything, ’kay? He’s a good kid. He doesn’t need any trouble.”

  They shook hands, and Larson was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  – Dr. Markowitz?

  – Who is asking?

  Worried her actions could cost Penny’s life, Hope wondered what she’d gotten herself into as she debated how to answer that query. Her fingers hovered over the keys. Finally, she typed:

  – A mother. The Romeros have taken my daughter. I need your help.

  – No. I cannot help you.

  – You left the port open on purpose.

  – Yes.

  – So you want help. So do I. Is my daughter there with you?

  – No.

  – You must help me.

  The line remained blank, the cursor blinking like a winking eye.

  – They took my grandson, Adam. If my daughter-her family-says anything, they threatened to kill him. Rescue my grandson and I will do anything.

  Hope stared at the flashing cursor on her screen, her fingers suddenly frozen. His answer was so unexpected, she wasn’t sure what to do. Finally she wrote the only thing she could think to write.

  – Where is my daughter?

  The question sat on the screen, the cursor blinking. She waited for his line of text to come beneath hers.

  – Follow the e-mail.

  As she lifted her hands to the keyboard, the dialogue box suddenly disappeared. At first she thought it was a malfunction. With Miller still on the line, she said, “What just happened?”

  “Terminated.” She heard the furious clicking of a keyboard. “From his end,” Miller reported. Then, just as quickly: “Oh, shit.” He blurted it out like a man unaccustomed to swearing. “They just pinged you!”

  “What?”

  “Shut off your machine! Lose the connection right now!”

  Hope stood from the edge of the bed, the keyboard spilling from her lap and crashing to the carpet. She lunged for the television remote, left on the small circular table by the windows. She pushed buttons, but nothing happened, only to realize she had the remote aimed backwards. She turned it around, hit MENU and worked through the choices. When she hit RETURN TO LIVE TV, an episode of Seinfeld appeared.

  “Dr. Miller?” she inquired, back on the phone now.

  “They pinged you. Do you understand?”

  “Follow the e-mail,” she said, repeating what she’d read.

  “The port had to be open, you see? Unsecured, to do this.” He seemed to be talking to himself, apologizing. “By pinging you, they went straight back to whatever machine you’re using. Understand? There was nothing I could do about it.”

  “What e-mail is he talking about?” she repeated.

  “That ping will return a unique ID for you.”

  She thought of Larson. “They’ll be under arrest before they can do anything about it.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Yes, we do, actually. Now, calm down and think,” she told him. She was close to Penny now-she could feel it. “We need to concentrate on what he told us. Follow the e-mail. Can you trace any e-mail he may have sent through your network?”

  “I’ve put you in danger.”

  She pulled the phone away from her face and took a deep breath, then resumed. “Doctor, I need you to concentrate.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Lizards scampered noisily through the brittle dead leaves amid the overgrown tangle on both sides of the lane. Dusk had ridden away while Larson had shared drinks with Montgomery. The sky retained a smoky blue haze as a few determined stars struggled through. Rum pulsed inside him, competing with adrenaline and the lingering effects of the espresso. He longed for backup, but he’d already made that choice.

  Despite what he’d let Hope think, he doubted he’d find Penny with Markowitz. The Romeros were too smart to lump together their assets. But Markowitz remained a possible link-a lead worth following-and Larson was intent on making that connection.

  He moved off the narrow road of sand and crushed shell and ducked into the tangle of jungle plants. The ground was soft here and spongy beneath his feet.

  OSPREY, the house sign announced above the front door. No lights on. No electric cart out front.

  The sand in front of the home was cratered with water marks from heavy rain, undisturbed by either wheels or footprints and suggesting the OSPREY stood empty.

  Larson carefully picked his way through the undergrowth, coming up on the north side of what, from Montgomery ’s directions, was The Sand Dollar. Constructed on stilts to survive a storm surge, the first floor of these homes stood twelve feet above sea level. Larson would have to climb either the front or back stairs to get any kind of look inside. Caged in by white-painted lattice fencing that surrounded the ground-level carport, a crusty golf-cart charger sat on the sand, its dial glowing, wires like sleeping snakes. The cart itself was missing, driven down to the marina-Larson thought-supporting what Montgomery had told him: One of the three had taken off unexpectedly. Alongside a rust-brown propane tank, two air-conditioning units rumbled and a pair of vinyl garbage cans overflowed with trash.

  Above the loud drone of the air conditioner, Larson heard hurried footsteps overhead. Someone going up and down stairs. Shouting, although too muted to make out the words.

  What if the other man had not left the island but instead was bringing the Valentis’ boat around in order to load up and evacuate the professor? What if Miller’s electronic probing had somehow been detected? Or what if Markowitz’s work was complete: Laena now fully decrypted? What if Markowitz himself was expected at the upcoming mob meeting?

 
; A room light glowed from the first floor. Larson reached down and touched the butt of his Glock but did not arm himself.

  For the next ten minutes he patiently awaited delivery of dinner from the inn. His ears whined. The air smelled sour; everything on this island was rotting at a different pace. A motor grumbled at a distance, and Larson thought he’d been right about the evacuation plan. But as it grew louder, it sounded more like a plane, and then all at once a seaplane flew past, low to the water, lights flashing, not thirty yards away. Larson took advantage of the noise and distraction to climb the back steps to The Sand Dollar.

  There, his fears and his theory were confirmed as he nearly tripped over two rollerboard suitcases and a cardboard box stacked outside at the top of the stairs. Through a kitchen door that was primarily glass, he saw the kitchen countertops in disarray, glass and plastic bottles of every variety, from peanut butter to cranberry juice, some empty, some not, all lined up on a center island like soldiers. Fingerprints, he realized. Any surface capable of carrying a fingerprint had been brought out of the cupboards and sequestered. Wiped down, no doubt.

  Close by now, the seaplane’s engines groaned in bursts. The aircraft had landed and was taxiing. Its engines finally wound down and fell silent. Larson had seen a long dock off the crescent beach and believed the seaplane likely had tied up there.

  At that instant, a golf cart’s dim headlights broke the darkness of the lane. The vehicle motored silently up to the front of The Sand Dollar and a college kid climbed out and carried a tray up the front stairs. Larson heard the bell chime through the walls and waited first for the sound of feet approaching. A man’s back appeared, heading away from Larson down a peach and turquoise hallway toward the front door.

  With the man’s back to him, Larson stepped around the luggage to the kitchen door and tried the knob. It turned. He pushed through and stepped inside, working to shut the door soundlessly behind himself.

  Two careful steps took him deeper into the kitchen and away from any line of sight from the front door.

  He connected the seaplane to the packed bags out on the porch. Markowitz’s handlers were moving him.

  He slipped quietly into a small dining room. A large mirror was centered on the longest wall and held in a seashell frame. In the mirror’s reflection, Larson saw the man at the door in profile as he tipped the college kid, accepted the tray of food, and then, closing the door, set the tray on the floor. He turned away from it, showing no intention of eating it.

  Larson heard the man’s quick ascent of the stairs and his arrival on the second floor. “Get it done!” the man hollered. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”

  “It’s on its way now,” came another man’s strong voice. Older perhaps. Defiant. “It’s a large file. Several minutes at least. Just pack or whatever. Don’t rush me.”

  Markowitz.

  “They’re here now!” the younger voice said. “Just landed. They’ll be down here any minute to pick up our stuff. Hurry it up!”

  “I said it’s on its way!” the old man replied. “There’s nothing I can do about transmission speed.”

  Larson heard the distinctive clicking of furious typing at a keyboard. It’s on its way. Was that Laena he referred to? Transmission speed. Where, and to whom?

  Seeing no other choice but to make his move, Larson withdrew his weapon and rounded the corner into the hallway. He slipped past the smells of a fish dinner and edged toward the staircase that rose to the second floor.

  He took his first tentative step, his weapon aimed straight up the tunnel toward the two-possibly three-arguing men, heard but not yet seen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Tommy Tomelson let himself into the hotel room with his own electronic key card. He was sweating, a sour, bitter odor coming from him, as he turned and both locked and barred the door. He clutched a maid’s black-and-white uniform under his left arm. Extending the dress to her, he instructed, “Put this on. And hurry!”

  She stepped toward the bathroom, but Tomelson blocked her advance with an outstretched arm.

  “No need to undress,” he said. “Besides, I don’t want you trapped in there.” He pointed first to the drawn blinds, then to the door behind him. “Windows and the door. Quick egress.” He turned his back to give her privacy, facing the door. “Keep your clothes on. Just get the dress on over them.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  Tomelson’s eyes said it all.

  “Someone’s here?”

  “A guy at the front desk asked some questions,” he told her. “No idea how he found us so fast.”

  Hope glanced back at the television. For the past forty-five minutes she’d been agonizing over what to do. Before running she wanted Larson back. She wanted Miller to call with more information about the e-mail Markowitz had mentioned.

  Tomelson said, “I’m not taking any chances.”

  She considered explaining what she’d done but ate her words. She tried to pull her pants up on her calves, but it was no use; the pant legs would stick out from beneath the dress. She inspected the garment, unzipped it, and pulled it on over her head. The top of the dress hid her shirt, but its skirt, with a mock apron sewn in place, stopped at her knees. She reached up under the dress and, kicking off her shoes, unfastened her pants and slipped them off, stepping out of them.

  Tomelson located a hotel laundry bag in the closet and handed it to her. She put the pants into this bag.

  There was music playing somewhere nearby. Children’s voices shouting, “Trick or treat!” Only a few days ago she and Penny had had such plans for this evening. That recollection overpowered her.

  “The shoes are wrong,” she said, looking down.

  Brown slip-ons with a black uniform.

  Tomelson didn’t dignify that with a comment. Instead, he said, “You’ll go calmly down the hall. Use the stairs. You’ll leave out the back of the hotel, by the putting green. Head down the bike path. It’s crazy out there because of Halloween. Find someplace nice and public. When you do, call me.”

  He scratched out a phone number, tore off the corner of the magazine he’d written it on, and passed it to her. His hand was shaking, either from alcohol or nerves.

  Hope pocketed the number in the front of her maid’s apron.

  Behind Tomelson, the door kicked in and she felt the thunder of shots fired.

  Hope dived to the floor, so dizzy with fear she couldn’t see.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Larson was halfway up the stairs when all the shouting stopped. The sudden change froze him. He became acutely aware of the big-breasted white-porcelain mermaid figurine on a small table at the top of the stairs. She seemed to be looking right at him. Laughing.

  Then, ever so slightly, the mermaid rocked side to side, a nearly imperceptible movement. The flooring had moved; and with it, the table; and with it, the figurine. Someone up there was moving toward the stairs.

  All these realizations collided in Larson at the same instant, combining to loosen his knees and move the barrel of his Glock slightly to his left. He crouched and raised the weapon. A man appeared at the top of the stairs, already firing.

  Larson squeezed off two shots and then intentionally slipped his toes off the stair tread, sliding backward and down the stairs toward cover. White plaster from exploding Sheetrock filled the air like smoke and fell like snow. Larson’s third shot, aimed at the belly, took away most of the man’s knee, and spun him around like a dancer. Hit, the man fired off three more rounds, lost to the walls.

  Larson reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped moving. His arm steady, he fired again, but the man was turned, his profile reduced. The porcelain figurine erupted off the table into a thousand floating shards.

  A splash of flesh erupted out of the shooter’s back. He buckled forward and collapsed. Then the top stair splintered, as did the fifth stair down.

  Larson had not fired either of those shots. Montgomery had given him the wrong head count.

 
; A younger man appeared at the top of the stairs, a black semiautomatic gripped in both hands, arms extended. Eyes squinted nearly shut. Early, early twenties, still with bad acne. Freckles. Reddish hair. He looked like an altar boy, not a killer. Fired a gun like one as well. He’d shot the other one-accidentally, no doubt-while wildly running through a full magazine. His shots continued down the stairs, wood and carpet jumping, debris flying.

  Larson dropped him with single round, a gut-shot that staggered him back and pushed him to sitting against the wall by the table where the figurine had been. He stared straight ahead as he slumped to the side and fell still.

  Larson moved into the downstairs hall for cover.

  “Dr. Markowitz?” he shouted, when he’d regained his breath. “ U.S. marshal. Hello? Dr. Markowitz? I’m coming upstairs. Hands on your head, knees on the floor, or I will shoot! Dr. Markowitz?”

  He worked his way slowly up the stairs, his attention committed to the two on the top landing, wondering if either of them had enough left in their tanks to extend the firefight. Two steps later he felt fairly certain the younger guy was dead, and a sense of outright anger flooded him, for he’d felt compelled to defend himself, and the kid had no sense of guns whatsoever.

  The first one, the one now folded forward in a pose of contrite prayer, had been gut-shot and was losing blood badly. He was unconscious, though somehow balanced and stuck in this position. Larson reached the landing, kicked the weapons away. One tumbled downstairs, clattering as it landed. He glanced around for a phone. Perhaps they could medevac this one to the mainland.

  In searching for the phone, Larson spotted Markowitz, recognizing him even from the back. He shouted to him, “Dr. Markowitz! Hands where I can see them, please.”