by Tom Savage
Just as he reached the Nissan, the sky opened again, and another crash of thunder echoed across the harbor below. He got in and started the engine. Before he pulled away, he reached down with his hand to feel under the passenger seat. Yes, he thought. He’d found it in an empty boathouse at the yacht club. A good, solid crowbar that couldn’t be traced to him.
Perfect.
Robin and the young woman sat in his rental car, silent, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof and looking off in opposite directions. She was gazing at the front door of the house, he at the huge tamarind in the center of the circular drive. The porch light and the floodlights aimed up at the tree were indistinct, wavering, seen through the wet windshield. Their evening was over; it was a few minutes after ten o’clock.
“Well,” he said.
“Well,” she echoed. Then turning to glance over at him, she added, “See you Thursday.”
With that she was out of the car and running quickly across the path to the front door. She turned around briefly and raised an arm in final salutation. Over the rain, he could hear the distant sound of a dog barking. He waited until she was safely inside the house and the barking ceased. Then he drove away.
What the hell was that all about? he wondered as he made his way back down the drive and through the stone portal to the main road. They had been doing fine until that moment at the dinner table, when he touched her hand and she pulled away. That moment, he thought now, when I realized that no matter what Margaret is paying me, I don’t have the right to further invade this woman’s privacy. The moment I knew I couldn’t tell her who I really am or what I’m really doing in St. Thomas.
Yes, he thought, that dropped a wrench into the proceedings. My morality. She can call herself Diana Meissen, or Selena Chase, or Greta Garbo, if it comes to that. Dye her hair red or brown or green. Whatever. I can’t. And I can’t go on pretending I don’t know who she is.
I can’t pretend I’m not falling in love with her.
I can act on a stage: I can do this when I’m Hamlet, or Stanley Kowalski, or even Chucky the Clown. Not when I’m me.
He would tell Margaret now, tonight. He would go to dinner at Cliffhanger on Thursday, and he’d take her out sailing on Labor Day, just as she’d requested at dinner. But that was it. No more. After that, the girl could stay here and be Diana Meissen or go someplace else and be somebody else. He didn’t care—or if he did, he wasn’t going to admit it. He had offered her his hand, his help, and she had refused. She had made that, if nothing else, perfectly clear. The woman of mystery had elected to remain mysterious.
So be it. The day after Labor Day—next Tuesday—he was out of here. History. Aloha. Time to get back to New York, furnish his condo, grab a copy of Backstage and hit the audition trail. Tell Yakimadoro that from now on he’d only accept easy assignments, like infiltrating the Mafia. Find a nice, friendly dog. Or maybe a cat.
Some actor, he thought as he drove through the rain on his way to Bolongo. And some detective. Some fucking detective.
Adam stood in the rain on the balcony, just outside the sliding glass doors to the bedroom, waiting. In his left hand, under the black raincoat, he clutched the crowbar. It was nearly ten-thirty. Soon, he thought. Soon. Any minute now.
It was always the anticipation, his favorite part of it. The waiting, the knowing that soon he would be in complete control. The thrill of pure energy, the surge forming deep inside, imbuing him. No drug, no mere physical act, however pleasurable, was like this, now. This moment.
Yes, he thought as he waited, I’m ready now. Ready for God. Not that vague, intangible presence that was believed in and prayed to by the ignorant, the impotent, the ordinary. Mine is the real power, the one true God.
He heard the sound of a car door slamming in the distance, followed by the splash of feet running in the rain. Stepping back into the shadows of the balcony, he closed his eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. The crowbar burned, ice-cold, in his almighty fist.
FIFTEEN
THURSDAY, AUGUST 29
KAY HELD the enormous knife up in front of her and brought it suddenly, violently down, piercing the outer layer of skin and cutting cleanly through. Then, without pausing, she brought up the sharp, heavy blade and smashed it down again. And again. A series of swift, efficient strokes, one after another. At some point she slipped from conscious effort into automatic routine as her mind wandered away from the task at hand, blinded by the pain and anger she’d kept inside for several days. Now, in this action, she had finally found a physical outlet for it. Her rage, her acute, overwhelming sense of violation traveled down her arm and into the blade, communicating itself in the grim satisfaction she felt as she sliced through flesh and the blood flowed, oozing from the gaping wounds.
This, she thought as she once more raised the knife and stabbed, is for Trish. And this, and this.
Trish. Oh, God, Trish. . . .
Kay had practically been living at St. Thomas Hospital for the last three days, haunting the waiting room and the nurses’ station, sitting next to the bed whenever possible. She’d only just now returned from today’s vigil, to make dinner for the others. Nola and Diana hovered nearby, getting the pot ready for the noodles and chopping vegetables for the salad. But Kay was supervising the Stroganoff herself. It was her mother’s recipe, and she trusted no one else to make it properly.
She wielded the cleaver once more, cutting the beef into small, perfect cubes, glancing over at the labels of the two bottles of burgundy that stood uncorked on the other counter. Dinner, at least, would be fine.
Jerry Flynn would be there, and Bob Taylor. Now that Trish’s condition had improved from critical to stable, there was really no point in putting off the original plan. Kay could use the distraction, to say nothing of Jerry.
Adam had been wonderful throughout the ordeal: sitting with her and Jerry for long hours at the hospital, insisting on the best doctors, taking care of medical and insurance forms, even offering to cancel his trip to the States. But Kay had insisted that he keep his promise to Roger Bartlett in Palm Beach, and they had both decided it would be best for Lisa to go to Connecticut. Kay would be fine here, she insisted, with Diana and Nola. And the doctors said Trish would be all right. She’d probably be out of the hospital in a few days, and the decision to have her recuperate here, at Cliffhanger, had been unanimous.
Kay set the meat aside and reached for an onion. As she did so, she glanced briefly over at the young woman on the other side of the counter. Diana looked up, smiled, and returned her attention to the cutting board before her. She really is amazing, Kay thought as she worked, treating the onion more gently than the beef as her anger dissipated. Trish had not suffered any permanent damage; Kay had been assured of that.
Trish.
The thief had struck Trish on the back of the head, one powerful blow with a blunt weapon of some description. Trish hadn’t seen anything. She had just entered her dark apartment, was in the act of reaching for the light switch, when something crashed against her skull and she pitched forward into oblivion. When she came to, hours later in the hospital, she was unaware of exactly what had happened to her. Kay had told her, Kay and Chief Potter. Her jewelry and her silver—like Brenda’s and Nancy’s before her—were gone. The concussion was bad but not life-threatening: Mr. Potter had remarked that the blow seemed to have been designed to do the job while creating the least amount of damage. The robber had obviously wanted to hurt her, to neutralize her temporarily, but not to kill her. The chief had been certain of that, and no one had seen any reason to argue with him. Certainly not Kay, who’d been trying not to think about it at all until just now, when she held the cleaver in her hand and her outrage manifested itself physically. The sonofabitch hadn’t had any such qualms about killing Nancy.
Jack Breen had been with Jerry and several other people at the Reef at the time of the attack on Trish, which had pretty much exonerated him of any involvement in the robberies and the death of his wife.
Kay went over the evening in her mind: dancing with Adam; laughing with the others at the big round table at the club; removing the glass from Jack’s hand and insisting that he switch to ginger ale. Then later, at home, making love with an unusually excited Adam, and the phone ringing. . . .
Jerry had left the club at two-thirty, dropped Jack at home, and gone to Trish’s condominium. He’d let himself in with his own key and nearly tripped over her.
She closed her eyes and reached for the pasta. Diana placed the last of the chopped vegetables in the huge wooden salad bowl and came around the counter.
“That’s done,” she said quietly. “I have to get ready now.”
Kay nodded. As the young woman-passed her on the way to the door, Kay reached over briefly and touched her arm.
No words were spoken. They regarded each other for a moment, and then Diana smiled and nodded and went out of the kitchen.
The young woman sat at the vanity table in her little bedroom upstairs, staring at her face in the mirror.
It would all be over soon.
She reached down into the top drawer and pushed aside the cosmetics: the perfume and the makeup and the dye. There, at the very back, was the small prescription bottle she’d obtained the day before. Good. She closed the drawer and reached for her hairbrush. She watched her actions in the glass as she catalogued her list of new secrets.
Adam had murdered Sandra Franklin.
Adam had murdered Nancy Breen.
Adam had very nearly murdered Trish Manning.
One hundred strokes, as she had done all her life, as her mother had done for her when she was small. One hundred strokes to make it soft, to make it gleam.
And what, she wondered as she brushed, had happened to Greg? She had forgotten about Adam’s former mate, the only one who could link her to Adam before her present visit to the island. She had forgotten him as conveniently as he had disappeared, to be replaced by the ignorant Kyle. As conveniently as Sandra Franklin, the only other possible witness, had drowned.
If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that she’d been aware from the outset that others would be harmed, that her private passions would lead, step by fateful step, to this obvious eventuality. That her happiness, her ultimate fulfillment, would exact a price. But she had made the choice. She had decided long ago that it was a price she was willing to pay. It was, perhaps, her greatest secret.
Stroke, stroke, stroke of the brush as the new secrets were added to, and mingled with, the old. She stared at the face before her, thinking, I am living a life of secrets. Those I’ve kept from Mom. And Juana. And Kay and her daughter. And this interesting new character Bob Taylor. And most of all, Adam.
Adam, who thinks nothing of using murder to get what he wants.
Then, gazing at herself, she discovered the irony, the macabre humor, in that. How very alike we are, she realized. I think nothing of it, either. Adam doesn’t know that about me, but he will soon enough. Until then, I will remain silent.
The tears had come quietly this time, unheralded. She stared at her reflection, watching as one heavy drop rolled slowly down her cheek, followed by another. She lowered her head, biting her lip and staring sightlessly down at the surface of the table. After a moment, she raised her chin and willed herself to look once more at the frightened, unhappy woman in the glass. Then she put down the brush and reached for the lipstick.
Passion’s Promise.
The three men waited in the living room for the women to arrive. Adam looked over at the other two, wondering what in God’s name he could come up with to break their silence. Jerry and Bob had arrived almost simultaneously, and he had greeted them and led them here. He’d handed out drinks from the bar in the corner. Only the young man had sat down; Jerry remained standing near the doors to the deck, staring out over the dark water. Adam hovered between them, aware of the discomfort he always felt when he was forced to be with people whom he found boring. Which, he mused, was practically everyone.
Where the hell is Kay? he wondered. What could possibly be taking so long in the kitchen? And why doesn’t she just show Nola how to make her precious beef Stroganoff? That’s what servants are for.
Then another thought occurred to him, and he raised a hand to his mouth to hide his wry smile. Too bad Trish won’t be joining us, he thought. Oh well, she’ll be out of the hospital in a few days, and no real harm done. He had seen to that. He had constantly reminded himself, as he prepared and executed this latest phase of the plan, that Trish could not be sacrificed. That would have ruined everything. Kay would have been inconsolable, and he would not have been able to leave the island. Running off to a race in Florida mere days after the murder of his wife’s closest friend would have appeared suspicious, even to him. So Trish had been spared. The crowbar, now resting deep in the Atlantic, had replaced the weapon of choice, and the silly woman had a mere bump on the head as a souvenir of the mysterious bandit who was roaming St. Thomas, preying on the rich.
Excellent.
There was a sound from the upper floor, and all three men turned to look. Diana stood on the balcony above them, gazing down. She wore a gauzy white blouse and pleated navy skirt, and her dark hair hung straight to her shoulders. Adam stared as she came slowly down the stairs, marveling at the fact that any woman so simply dressed could be so breathtakingly beautiful. He glanced over at Taylor: the young man seemed rooted, stunned by the vision. Then he turned his attention back to the object in Taylor’s enraptured stare as she arrived at the bottom of the staircase.
“Good evening,” she said. She bestowed a quick smile upon the smitten Bob Taylor before turning her full attention, and a dazzling grin, toward Adam. Even the melancholy Jerry had discontinued his contemplation of the distant waves and fixed his gaze on the lovely young woman. She seemed to have that effect on everyone. But her heart, Adam knew, was his. She was beautiful for him, and him alone.
Yes, Adam thought as he stepped forward to greet her.
Perfect.
Jerry Flynn went home almost immediately after dessert, and the rest of the little group dispersed temporarily throughout the house. Kay sat next to the phone in a corner of the living room and called the hospital. Adam Prescott excused himself and disappeared into the master bedroom. Lisa ran up to her room, accompanied by her dog. Robin took this opportunity to go outside and join the young woman who stood at the railing on the deck, gazing steadily out at the moonlit water.
He stood in the doorway behind her for a few moments, watching her dark hair move gently in the evening breeze. So lovely, he thought, Then, remembering their dinner date three nights before, he forced himself to look away from her and over at the lights of the hotel on the next point of land across the bay. No, he reminded himself: this loveliness is not for me.
If she was aware of his presence behind her, she gave no sign. She leaned against the rail, apparently fascinated by the way the moonlight burnished the sea. The long, wide streak in the water below the moon sparkled as if with inner fire. He followed her gaze to the ribbon of ice-blue light, wondering—not for the first time, not for the last—what she was thinking. His focus returned to her hair, the back of her neck, the rippling white blouse, and he emitted a long, low sigh. It was this that announced him. She abandoned her vigil, or whatever it was, and turned around, a little smile forming at the corners of her mouth. He went over to stand next to her at the railing.
“Penny,” he said.
Her sudden laugh transformed her, changing the moment from quiet and contemplative to something warm and light and unaffected. She gave herself over to it, throwing back her head and shaking with merriment. He grinned in the darkness next to her. So, he thought, she can be spontaneous. She should try it more often.
They both bent over the rail, shoulders touching, looking out at the nighttime view.
“That’s my line,” she replied, still giggling. “I stole it from Noel Coward.”
Now he, too, was laughing. “Are you sure
it wasn’t Philip Barry?”
The moment, lovely as it was, disappeared in an instant. He felt the sudden tension in her arm where it pressed lightly against his. Then she pulled away and turned her face to him. Her smile was gone. He watched as her mouth tightened and her brows moved closer together. Something was puzzling her.
Oh, he thought as it dawned on him. Oh, great! How many real-estate salesmen would possibly know . . . dumb, Robin. You are truly dumb.
It was, he would later realize, his second big mistake.
Now, on the deck, he merely blushed and turned away from her piercing gaze.
“I’m a fan of old movies,” he mumbled. “Philip Barry wrote The Philadelphia Story.”
There was a slight pause before she said, “Yes, I know.” Then, as if sensing his distress, she moved the conversation away from early-twentieth-century playwrights. “So, are we on for Labor Day? You will come sailing with me, won’t you?”
His laugh was half amusement, half relief. “I promised, didn’t I?”
“You did,” she said, “and I intend to hold you to it. No begging off with a sudden headache. The only way to conquer fear is to get back on the horse—or, in your case, boat.”
They were both laughing now, and their bodies were once more leaning together at the railing, once more relaxed.
“Oh, come on!” he cried in mock exasperation. “I’m not that scared of boats.”
“Good. You’ll need all your courage for the cat.”
“The . . . cat?”
“Catamaran,” she sang, grinning innocently up at him. “You know, two pontoons with a sort of net stretched between them. Kind of like a trampoline. You sit on that, and—” She broke off, smiling. “Something wrong, Bob?”
He was gripping the rail, shuddering.
“Why don’t I just jump off this cliff right now?” he muttered, leaning forward and looking down into the black abyss. “It’ll save time. . . .”