Текст книги "Trouble in Paradise"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

"Helps that these houses are all the same, don't it?" Macklin said.

"Okay, both of you go into the lav and close the door and stay there."

The man and woman did as they were told. They're glad to, Macklin thought. Means we're not going to kill them. When the door was closed, Crow went to the living room and got the big gym bag. He came back down the hall and took a hammer and some 12D nails from the bag and nailed the lavatory door shut. Then he dropped the hammer back into the bag, put the shotgun in, picked the bag up, and he and Macklin, who was carrying the canvas duffel bag, walked out of the house. On the sidewalk, Macklin looked at his watch.

"Pretty good," he said.

"We'll have them all by late afternoon."

"What's Fran telling people at the bridge?" Crow said.

"What's that sign say?"

Macklin smiled.

"The sign says "Caution: Blasting,"" he said.

"Any civilians, Fran tells them the island's closed for a couple hours."

They walked up the manicured walkway of the next estate.

Macklin rang the door bell and deep inside the house some chimes sounded. Macklin grinned at Crow.

"Avon calling," Macklin said and set his duffel bag down on the step beside him.

FIFTY.

Abby Taylor lived in a weathered shin home in the oldest part of Paradise. When!

she was married, she had bought it with her husband, and when they had divorced it remained with her. When her doorbell rang, she looked through the peephole in the front door and saw a well-dressed, good-looking, upper-class woman in her forties, who looked vaguely familiar. Abby J opened the door.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," the good-looking woman said and hit Abby flush on the jaw with her clenched right fist. It was a good punch, and it staggered Abby backward several steps. The woman stepped through the front door and closed it behind her. By the time Abby got her balance, the woman was aiming a.38 Smith & Wesson Chief's Special at her.

"What... the... Christ are you... doing?" Abby said.

Her lip was already starting to puff.

"The punch was to get your attention," Faye said. She felt perfectly cold and steady inside.

"If you don't do exactly what I say, I'll kill you. Do you believe that?"

Abby stared at her. It was hard to process anything. The woman slapped her hard across the face with her left hand.

"Do you believe that?" the woman said.

Abby nodded.

"Okay. We're going to go to your bedroom, and you're going to lie on the bed facedown. You got that? You so much as clear your throat, and I'll fill your head full of bullets."

"What are you going to do?" Abby said. Her voice sounded thin to her and puny.

"Anything I have to," the woman said.

"You do what you're told, you'll get out of this alive. You don't, and you won't."

"Why?" Abby said.

"Why are you doing this?"

The woman smiled without any hint of laughter.

"Love," she said.

"Love?"

The woman jerked her head toward the front stairs.

"Your bedroom up there?"

"Yes."

"Then move," the woman said.

As they went up the stairs, Abby could hear a dog bark somewhere and then someone whistling for it and then quiet. The quiet was oppressive. The house was thunderously empty except for her and this violent woman. They reached her bedroom.

"Lie on the bed," the woman said.

Abby did as she was told. The woman took a pair of handcuffs from her purse, and holding the gun in her right hand, she snapped one cuff on Abby's left wrist and the other to the headboard of the bed. Then she stepped back and put the gun in her purse and looked around the room. There was a phone on the bedside table.

The woman unplugged it and put it in the hall. She looked out the window at Abby's backyard. The next house was fifty feet away. The window was closed. The woman lowered the window shade.

"Nobody can hear you," she said to Abby.

"What are you going to do to?"

"You'll be all right," the woman said.

"It'll only be a while."

Then she shut the door and went downstairs, leaving Abby alone in the darkened bedroom.

FIFTY-ONE.

Molly came into Jesse's office with two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag. She put a cup of coffee on his desk, took a raspberry turnover from the bag, handed it to him, and sat down opposite the desk.

"You busy," Molly said.

"Well, I was thinking of taking a ride "to Charlestown again, see if I can find Harry Smith, aka James Macklin."

"The guy's a phony?"

"And a bad one."

"You going alone?"

"I thought I might bring a Boston detective with me."

"There's more going on here than I know about, isn't there?"

"Suit will fill you in. You make the turnover?"

"The Paradise Bake Shop helped me," Molly said.

"I got time to eat it," Jesse said.

Molly smiled.

"Figured you might like something soothing... or you can talk if you want," she said.

Jesse took the turnover out and had a bite. He chewed it while he pried the lid off the coffee cup.

"Don't need to talk," he said.

"Fine with me," Molly said.

"Got a call from Citadel Security.

They said the Stiles Island Patrol hadn't called in for a couple hours now. Asked us to check."

"Send somebody out?" Jesse said.

"Pat Sears and Billy Pope," Molly said.

"Good. There another turnover?"

Molly fumbled in the bag and took out a second turnover and handed it to him.

"Jenn didn't help things," Molly said.

"No."

"Kay Hopkins has a lot of say in this town," Molly said.

"You'll have to take her seriously, Jesse."

"I do what I can do, Molly."

"I know, but Jenn assaulting her..."

"Jenn does what she can do."

"That's a funny situation," Molly said.

"If you'll excuse my saying so. You're divorced, but you're not really separated."

"Yes, it's odd," Jesse said.

"Would you marry her again?" Molly said.

"Tell me if I'm out of line."

"You're okay," Jesse said.

"Yeah, I'd marry her again if I knew it would be monogamous."

"How could you know?"

"If she promised, I'd believe her."

Molly made a face.

"Your marriage monogamous?" Jesse said.

"Be no marriage if it weren't," Molly said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I'd leave in a heartbeat."

"No, I mean, how do you know your husband isn't cheating on you?"

"He wouldn't."

Jesse nodded. Molly frowned at him. Then she smiled.

"You trust her?" Molly said.

"I trust her not to lie to me again."

"She lied to you before."

"Yes."

"So how can you know now that she wouldn't do it again?"

"Same way you do," Jesse said.

"But you have a history..."

"And when I was living that history, I knew I couldn't trust her.

Now I know I can."

"And the other women? Abby? Marcy Campbell?"

"I'm a single guy," Jesse said.

"I like women. I like sex with women."

"But you love Jenn."

"Yes."

"For me the two things sort of merge," Molly said.

"Love and sex?"

"Yes."

"You must be female," Jesse said.

"Irish Catholic female," Molly said.

"The ultimate."

They were quiet for a moment.

"All of this is none of my business, is it?"

"No, it's not," Jesse said.

"But it's nice to talk about it with someone who has no stake in the outcome."

"Well, I love you too, Jesse."

"Yeah, but not that way."

"No, I love my husband that way."

"Damn," Jesse said. And they both laughed.

FIFTY-TWO.

As soon as JD cut the ropes, Marcy peeled off the duct tape that covered her mouth, picked up her purse without a word, and went into the small lavatory. She locked the door and used the lav, washed her hands and began to examine her face in the mirror. The tape had taken all her makeup and most of her lipstick with it. There was a big red mark across the lower part of her face where it had been. Marcy washed her face in the basin, and dried her face carefully.

She didn't have enough makeup in her purse to repair the damage.

All she could do was put on fresh lipstick and comb her hair. Then she stood silently with her forehead pressed against the mirror and her eyes closed. She felt safe in here, though she knew she wasn't. But she simply couldn't stay in here, cowering until what ever happened happened. She was better off than she had been. At least she wasn't tied up anymore. Harry and the Indian had told this man not to hurt her, and he seemed to do what they told him. If she had just given into impulse this morning and not come to work... that was pointless. What was going to happen was what mattered. She took in a deep breath and let it out and looked at herself in the mirror.

Okay, Marce, here you go. She opened the lavatory door and walked out into the office. JD was staring out the office window at the guard shack and the bridge. He glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Feeling better?" he said.

"Yes." Her voice was hoarse.

JD turned back toward the window.

"You need to stay in here and be quiet," he said.

"I got to concentrate. You give me a problem, and I'll kill you."

"Harry and the other man said I was not to be harmed."

"I know what they said. They meant if you were good. You give any of us trouble, and any of us will kill you. You understand?"

"Yes."

"You can't get off the island, and you can't make a phone call, so sit down and relax and don't bother me."

"I won't bother you," Marcy said.

JD turned back to the window. Marcy glanced around the office. She didn't want to sit on the couch where she had lain so long tied up. She went and sat behind the desk. It was, after all, her desk.

If he wanted to sit there, he could tell her. JD continued to stare out the window. His back looked stiff. He was nervous. The office was very still. She tried to breathe softly, looking at JD. He was a small man, and he had about him a kind of skinny softness. It wasn't fair.

She was a big woman and strong. She worked out every day at her health club. Yet this puny soft man was stronger than she was and could force her to do what he wanted. Of course, he had a gun. But even if he didn't, he could overpower her. It didn't seem right. But that's how it was. Clearly, God wasn't a woman.

"Can you tell me what's going on?" Marcy said.

JD shook his head.

"Well, what are you doing? Why are you all here?"

"Shhh!" JD said.

She felt a surge of anger. He was so dismissive. He didn't even turn his head. All women felt that anger if they let themselves.

Though most women didn't find themselves, literally at least, in this kind of situation.

"For God's sake, you could at least look at me," Marcy said.

JD turned slowly.

"You shut the fuck up, lady, or I'm going to come up alongside of your fucking head."

She felt the thrill of fear run through her. He wasn't just a sexist pig; he was a sexist pig with a gun, and she was his prisoner. Remotely, almost unconnected with the reality of her situation, the eternal footman of her consciousness made an ironic little snicker.

Her situation was probably just a slightly intensified version of all women's situation, the footman said. Everywoman!

"Jesus Christ," JD said.

Marcy stood behind the desk so she could look past him out the window. A Paradise patrol car was driving across the bridge.

Marcy felt a surge of excitement. Help was coming.

When the police car was halfway across, the bridge began to ripple. The ripple turned into a heave. And, as the sound of the explosion came rolling into the real estate office, the bridge went up and the police car with it, somersaulting slowly in among the pieces of the disintegrating bridge. One of its doors blew away and the hood tore off, and the car languidly turned over and planed into the gray harbor and disappeared.

Marcy stood motionless, staring, as bridge debris continued to spin down and splash into the harbor. JD was for a moment as transfixed as Marcy, watching the explosion settle. Then he began punching numbers into his cell phone.

"Jesus Christ," JD said.

"Jesus Christ."

FIFTY-THREE.

"Eploded?" Jesse said on the radio.

"Twenty calls at least," Molly said.

"At least five people said there was a police car on the bridge when it went."

"You raise Pope and Sears?" Jesse said.

"No."

Jesse thought a minute. He was halfway to Boston, nearly to the dog track.

"Okay, everybody on the force is now duty. Assemble them and stand by."

"Call the Statics?" Molly said.

"Let's see what we've got first," Jesse said.

He turned on the blue flasher, which he often did if he was in a hurry. He also turned on the siren, which he rarely did. He U-turned, bumping the car over the curbstone and listening to the protesting screech of the tires as he stepped hard on the accelerator pedal. In fifteen minutes, he was sitting in his idling car looking at the empty space above the water, where half of a steel girder dangling from the near abutment was all that remained. Some wreckage had washed against the near shore and bobbed against the rocks. There was no sign of the police car, not of Pope or Sears.

Several cars full of sightseers had arrived, and some pedestrians had gathered as well.

Jesse got on the radio.

"Molly, the bridge is gone. Everybody there?"

"Everybody but Eddie Cox," Molly said.

"His wife says he's out shopping. I left a message."

"Send a couple of guys down here to secure the place from the tourists. You hear from Pope and Sears?"

"Will do, Jesse. No response from Pope and Sears."

"Okay," Jesse said.

"Send me two guys to secure this end of the bridge. Everyone else stand by at the station."

"Will do, Jesse. What do I tell Betty Pope and Kim Sears if they call?"

"Tell them what we know, Molly. Don't speculate. Tell them I see no sign of them, and you can't raise them on the radio, and people report a police car was on the bridge when it blew."

"That's going to be pretty hard to hear, Jesse."

"I know. Refer them to me if you'd rather."

"No, you got enough, Jesse. If they call, I'll talk with them. What happened?"

"Don't know. The only odd thing is there's maybe a dozen people down here already milling around looking at the wreckage."

"That's not odd," Molly said.

"Yeah. But there's no one at the other side. Not even the guy from the guard shack. Anything yet from the Stiles Island Patrol?"

"No. Want me to call the Statics yet?"

"You better, at least give them a heads up."

"Okay, Jesse. John and Arthur are on the way in a cruiser."

"Thanks, Molly. I'll get back to you."

Jesse sat back and thought about Wilson Cromartie, who preferred to be called Crow. And James Macklin of Dorchester, who had flirted with him not very long ago. He stared at the debris washed by the rough water against the near shore. And he knew, as if he'd seen them, that Macklin and Cromartie were on Stiles Island. It was what exactly he was supposed to do about it that still needed work.

FIFTY-FOUR.

The bank employees were herded into one corner of the vault, and half the safe deposit boxes had been opened when Macklin heard the bridge explode. He looked at Crow. Crow continued to take everything out of the open security box and dump it into his duffel bag. He dropped the key into the open box, took another key from his pocket and with the bank manager supplying the second key, opened the next box. Macklin's cell phone rang. = "Yeah."

"JD, Fran had to blow the bridge."

"I know, I heard it. It'll happen just like I said. They'll mill around for a while. Then they'll get a boat and come to the yacht club landing. When they get about halfway there, Fran will blow it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"What did I tell you to do, JD?"

"After Fran blows the boat landing, I call you and wait for instructions."

"Good, JD, you and Fran come to the bank. Help us load."

"Should we leave the bridge unguarded?"

"The bridge is gone isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't need to guard it. And after Fran blows the boat landing, you won't need to guard it. Only way they can get to us is with a chopper, and it'll take some time for them to round one up.

Am I going too fast for you, JD?"

"No, I'm just being careful."

"You were careful you'd be down home drinking bourbon and Coca-Cola. Just do what I tell you."

"What do I do with the broad?" JD said.

"Leave her there, we got no need for her."

"Maybe we'll need a hostage," JD said.

Macklin smiled.

"JD wonders if we need a hostage," Macklin said to Crow.

"Tell him not to think anymore," Crow said, without looking up from the lock boxes.

"Crow says don't think anymore," Macklin said.

"I was just..."

"JD, the whole fucking island is a hostage. We don't need to lug one around with us."

"Didn't you tell me she's the chief's girlfriend? It might help if we hung on to her."

"It might," Macklin said.

"Go ahead and bring her." He broke the connection.

In the real estate office, JD stared at the silent cell phone.

"Prick," he said.

Marcy sat quietly behind her desk. Her hands folded on top of it. She could see that JD was tense. His movements were stiff and too quick. He stared out the window. Fran was walking back toward them from the wreckage of the bridge.

"Okay," JD said.

"You're going with us."

"Where?" Marcy's voice rasped, and she cleared her throat.

She'd heard JD's end of the conversation.

"Just get in the fucking car, lady. I got no time to explain things."

"I'm not really the chief's girlfriend," Marcy said. Her voice was still raspy. She couldn't seem to get it clear.

"You're fucking him, aren't you?"

Marcy didn't answer. JD gestured at her with his handgun.

"Come on," JD said.

"Get in the car."

FIFTY-FIVE.

It was an overcast day, and the water in the harbor was darker than the sky. Jesse was onboard the town boat with Suitcase Simpson, Anthony De Angelo and Peter Perkins. Simpson, De Angelo and Perkins wore vests and carried shotguns. lesse had neither. Phil Winslow, the harbor master, held the boat at an angle across the chop, steering for the yacht club landing dock that jutted out into the harbor.

"Only place I can put you ashore, Jesse," Winslow said.

"The rest of the damn island is all rock and surf. I can't get within a hundred yards."

"Maybe they don't know that," Jesse said.

"No way they would unless they explored it," Winslow said.

"Most people buy onto an island like this, they want beaches, you know? But Stiles Island uses the ocean like a Christly moat."

"It's working," Jesse said.

"Are you guys enough?" Winslow said.

"Have to be," Jesse said.

"Don't have that many left. Molly's at the station, Arthur and John Maguire are securing that end of the bridge, and I don't know where Eddie Cox is."

"Sears and Pope?" Winslow said.

"Probably dead," Jesse said.

"Jesus."

They were in the middle of the harbor now, past the cluster of pleasure boats moored in closer to the dock. Winslow turned the boat north, running parallel with Paradise Neck, heading for Stiles Island. Sound traveled over water, and even this far from the scene Jesse could hear the sirens of the fire and emergency vehicles still arriving at the scene of the explosion, cops from neighboring towns, probably some state cops. Molly would get them organized.

Ahead of them Jesse could see the fanciful cornices of the yacht club, white and pink, with a playful balcony across the second floor and a high-peaked red roof. Stiles Island people were very proud of it. Jesse thought it looked like an eighty-dollar-a-night motel in Flagstaff. The landing dock was actually a kind of catwalk set on pilings that went out nearly the length of a football field into the harbor. At the end of the catwalk, down a short flight of stairs, was a wide float anchored to the bottom and tethered to the catwalk pilings. There was enough play in the anchor chains so that the float rolled gently with the movement of the harbor. There was a resting bottom up on the float. No one was in sight. Winslow aimed the nose of the town boat straight at the float. As Jesse watched, the float began to heave and then it and the catwalk elevated as the sound of the explosion rolled across the water to them. The float turned over twice in midair. The empty drums that helped it float tore loose and scattered across the water. The catwalk disintegrated in midair, and the pieces seemed to hang there, as the float drifted down and landed bottom side up in the suddenly frantic water. The town boat pitched as the waves reached it, and Winslow wrestled the wheel around to stay stable. The silence after the explosion seemed louder than silence could be. It was underscored but not dispelled by the sound of the boat engine and the now turbulent ocean slapping against the hull. Winslow throttled back and held the boat sideways, idling, in the deep swells. No one spoke for a moment.

Then Jesse said, "Bad guys two, cops zip."

Winslow said, "What do you want me to do now, Jesse?"

"You know anyplace else to land?"

"No."

"Who would?"

Winslow shrugged.

"Maybe there ain't a place," he said.

"There'll be a place. Who knows the harbor better than you?"

"Can't say anybody does," Winslow said.

"Then let's go back to town," Jesse said.

The boat made a wide turn, and Winslow throttled up for the run back to the town wharf.

Suitcase said, "Usually get three strikes, don't you, Jesse?"

"At least," Jesse said.

FIFTY-SIX.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Macklin said, holding the 9-mm almost negligently at his side, "as you no doubt have figured, the shit has hit the fan, and it is time for us to go. We thank you for your patience, and your valuables."

The bank employees stood silent, standing close together as if for warmth.

Behind him, Fran was carrying the last duffel bag out of the vault toward the stairs to the street where JD held the van with its motor running.

"Okay," Macklin said.

"We need some hostages for a while."

He looked at Crow.

"Gimme five women. They're less trouble."

Crow moved in among the employees and cut out the five hostages. They moved numbly, not knowing what else to do.

"We won't need them for too long," Macklin said.

"We'll let them go when we leave. The rest of you want to run around after we've left and free some of your friends and neighbors," Macklin said, "go right ahead."

He grinned and scanned them.

"Any questions?"

No one spoke.

"Hasta la vista."

He turned and nodded at Crow and the two of them walked from the vault. No one in the vault moved. Macklin and Crow walked upstairs and through the empty bank, moving the women before them the way dogs move sheep. Crow's van was parked at the bank entrance right behind Macklin's Mercedes. JD and Fran were leaning on the van. Both had shotguns, and both men had a pinched look to their faces. Marcy was sitting on the floor in the back of the van. Crow herded the five women into the back of the van with her.

"What are they for?" JD said.

"Hostages," Macklin said.

"We already got her," JD said, nodding at Marcy.

"Can't have too many," Macklin said.

In the back of the van, crouched on the floor among the loaded duffel bags, a very young plump woman with a lot of frizzy blond hair began to cry. An older woman with gray hair in a tight perm, and horn-rimmed glasses on a strap around her neck, put her arm around the young woman and patted her shoulder. Marcy watched silently. You'll get used to it, she thought. She was, after all, a veteran hostage. She had several hours experience on these women.

"It's going to be all right," the older woman said.

"It's going to be fine."

Maybe, Marcy thought, and maybe not. Macklin looked at JD and Fran.

"Are we having fun yet?" he said.

"How long you think, Jimmy, before the cops get here?" Fran said.

"Long as it takes to get a big chopper up here and put a SWAT team on it."

"What if they do it quick?" Fran said.

"That's why God made hostages," Macklin said.

He looked at the Mercedes.

"Got to leave you here, old buddy," he said to the car.

"Goodbye."

He raised the 9-mm and turned his head away as if in grief and shot through the hood of the car. He laughed loudly. Fran glanced at Crow. Crow's face showed nothing.

"Come on," JD said.

"Let's get to the boat."

Macklin looked at his watch.

"We're too quick," he said.

"Got four hours still to high tide."

"We got to sit here and wait four hours?" Fran said.

"Sit someplace," Macklin said.

"You feel better sitting by the rendezvous, fine with me."

"So let's go," Fran said.

"Stop standing here out in the open."

Macklin looked at Crow and said, "These boys just haven't learned how to have fun."

"Scared," Crow said.

"No pain, no gain," Macklin said.

Crow nodded and laid the shotgun crossways on the dashboard and got in behind the wheel. JD and Fran scrambled into the backseat and Macklin, after a last look around, like a tourist leaving a favorite resort, climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. The women crouched in the cargo space behind them. The one who had been crying was silent now.

"How much you think we got?" JD said, as the van moved along the empty street.

"The houses? The retail stores? The bank? The safe deposit boxes?" Macklin said.

"Six, eight million maybe? Whaddya think, Crow?"

"I think we need to count it when we got time," Crow said.

"What if Freddie's not there?" Fran said.

"He'll be there," Macklin said.

"Freddie always does what he says. It's what makes him such a bad hard-on."

Macklin was drumming his fingertips lightly on the tops of his thighs. His eyes were bright and seemed to be opened wider than normal. His toes tapped the floorboards of the van in time with his fingertips.

"But what if he's not?" Fran said.

Macklin shifted a little in the seat so he could look straight at Fran.

"Fran, we just pulled off the mother fucker of all heists, you understand? This is a time to be cool and feel it and kick back and like it. This ain't a time to be whining."

"Fran's got four kids," Crow said.

"Shoulda thought about that when I invited him in," Macklin said.

"I did," Fran said.

"Then shut the fuck up," Macklin said.

"You don't have to talk to me that way, Jimmy," Fran said.

"I'll talk to you anyway I want," Macklin said.

"Got to understand," Crow said gently.

"Jimmy isn't doing this for the money. That's just the way he keeps score."

"You don't have to talk for me, Crow," Macklin said.

"The real thing he does it for is this, the charge, the danger, the goose it gives him, you understand? He does it same reason people do downhill skiing or sky diving. This is like getting laid for Jimmy, and right now when he's just ready to come, you're spoiling the feeling."

"What the fuck are you, Doctor Spock?" Macklin said.

Crow paid no attention to him.

"We'll pull this off or we won't," Crow said.

"And worrying out loud about it ain't going to do you any good, and it's going to piss Jimmy off really bad."

"And that won't do you any fucking good either," Macklin said.

Crow didn't say anything else. Fran was silent and so was JD.

Macklin resumed his finger drumming and toe tapping as they left the little downtown and swung onto Sea Street.

FIFTY-SEVEN.

When Jesse walked into the station with Simpson, De Angelo and Perkins, Molly was working the switchboard and covering the front desk.

"There's a guy from the Coast Guard on his way, Jesse," Molly said as he walked in, "and a State Police SWAT guy in your office."

Jesse said, "Thank you, Molly. Anthony, go find Doc Lane and bring him here."

"The bartender at the Gull?"

"Yep. If he's not working, ask the restaurant for his address. Peter, go find me a wet suit, medium. And some kind of waterproof equipment flotation. If you can't find anything closer, there's a place in Belmont on Trapelo Road."

"Flotation?"

"Yes. Go. Get it. Bring it back. Now."

Perkins and De Angelo left the station. Suitcase stayed with Jesse waiting to be told what to do. Jesse nodded toward his office, and they went in.

The SWAT team commander was a lean guy with round glasses and a crew cut. He put out a hand.

"Ray Danforth," he said.

"Jesse Stone. The big kid here is Suitcase Simpson."

"Lighter color than I remember you," Danforth said.

Suitcase looked blank. Danforth turned to Jesse.

"I got my men standing by at the explosion site," Danforth said.

"We got a mobile operations van on the way. What can you tell me?"

"What I know is that somebody blew the bridge to Stiles Island.

Somebody also blew the landing dock at the yacht club on Stiles.

No one has heard from the Stiles Island Security patrol since last night, and all the phones on Stiles give a busy signal when you call them."

"What do you guess?"

"A guy named Wilson Cromartie and a guy named James Macklin and probably some others are on the island. I assume the motive is robbery."

"How they going to get off the island?"

"Don't know."

"People on the island?"

"Far as I know, about a hundred."

"I'll get a hostage negotiator up here," Danforth said.

"Good. Let's not get any civilians killed," Jesse said.

"We got a traffic helicopter should be here anytime," Danforth said.

"And a transport chopper if we need one. That'll take a little longer. We got to fly it in from Hanscomb Field."

"Better call it up. We don't want to have to wait for it when we need it."

"Will do," Danforth said.

"What's your plan?"

"I might go ashore."

"Alone?"

"Yeah. Might be a good idea to have someone on the ground."

"Police chiefs don't usually do that kind of work," Danforth said.

"This is a small-town department," Jesse said.

"It's sort of informal here. We all pitch in."

"You don't have anyone else you'd trust?" Danforth said.

"Or you don't want to ask anyone else?"

Jesse shrugged.

"Whatever," he said.

"Who's going to run the department?"

"Molly," Jesse said, "and Suit." He nodded at Simpson.

"I ought to come with you, Jesse," Suitcase said.

"You stay here. Molly shouldn't have to run it alone."

"You remember what that cop said in Tucson," Suitcase said.

"I'm not going up against anyone," Jesse said.

"I'm just reconnaissance, you know? I'm just going to scoot around in the bushes and see what I can see and radio it back."

"I could cover your back," Suit said.

"You're too big to scoot around in the bushes," Jesse said.

"You go with Lieutenant Danforth. Molly will stand by in the station, and I will have a look see on the island."

"How you going to get there?" Suitcase said.

"I'm working on that."

"Doc?"

"He's been around this harbor all his life," Jesse said.

"You going to have him put you in the water?"

"Probably," Jesse said.

"And?" Suit said.

"And we'll see," Jesse said.

FIFTY-EIGHT.

The helicopter came up from the south east, across the causeway to Paradise Neck' and then across the harbor. It hovered for a time over the explosion site, then banked suddenly and flew down the Stiles Islam coast and paused again, this time over the boat house explosion.