Trouble in Paradise (22 page)

Maybe steal a little something too, Jesse thought. But he had bigger things to worry about, and he dismissed the thought.

”Can you tell me how to go in?“

”Not really… sir… I got to show you. There’s no real landmarks, you know?“

Jesse sighed. He had no choice.

”Okay,“ he said.

”You and your father.“

He looked at Jencks.

”You know how to use a gun?“

”Yes.“

”You want one?“

”Got one,“ Jencks said.

Not the time to ask him for his permit, Jesse thought.

”I got a shotgun on the boat,“ Doc said.

”Okay,“ Jesse said, ”here’s the deal. Doc, you take us. Snapper tells us where. I’ll go in alone.“

”Before me and my kid sign on here, we need to know what’s going on.“

”You do,“ Jesse said and told them what he knew.

”High tide will be in about three hours,“ Doc said to Jesse.

”Okay,“ Jesse said.

”I figure that’s how long we got. Chopper pilot says there’s a boat lingering on the ocean side of the island. My guess is it can get in close enough at high tide to take them off.“

”Near the restaurant?“ Jencks said.

”Yes. You think?“

”Yeah. It gets to where you can get in about twenty yards offshore and it’s shallow enough to wade out.“

”We let them get on the boat with the hostages, and we have a hairball,“ Jesse said.

”Like you don’t have one now?“ Doc said.

”Now we’ve got room to maneuver,“ Jesse said.

”Bad guys and hostages on a small boat in the open sea… ?“ Jesse shook his head.

”You figure they’re over on the other side, by the restaurant?“ Jencks said.

”Yes,“ Jesse said.

”That’s where they were when they fired on the chopper.“

”You don’t want to go ashore there.“

”No.“

”Then we’ll have to put you ashore where Snapper says.“

”Can you swim?“ Jencks asked.

”Yes.“

”Good?“ Doc asked him.

”Good enough.“

”I hope so,“ Doc said.

SIXTY

Marcy knew all of the hostages.
Stiles Island was small, and those who worked there had a silent mutual contempt for those who lived there. The young blond woman who had been crying was Patty Moore. She was twenty-two and worked as a teller in the bank. The gray-haired woman who had comforted her was Agnes Till, the assistant manager. Patty was single, lived with her divorced mother in Paradise. Agnes was married with three grown children. She commuted to Stiles Island every day from Danvers. Judy, Mary Lou, and Pam were all tellers, all young, all white. Judy and Pam were married and childless. Mary Lou was a lesbian, though most people, including the Paradise Bank, didn’t know it. She had spoken of it to Marcy once last spring at this bar on a Friday night after three Long Island iced teas. There were no black people on Stiles Island, residents or workers.

All of the women sat at two tables pushed together in the corner of the empty restaurant. They didn’t talk. There was nothing to say. Patty Moore’s eyes were still damp, but she had herself under enough control to be quiet. Marcy stared out the window and watched the early evening begin to darken the surface of the ocean.

Macklin was behind the bar. He took a shaker from under the bar and made some martinis. He held the shaker up.

”Crow?“

Crow shook his head.

”Ladies?“

No one answered. Macklin shook his head.

”Fine,“ he said.

”More for me.“

He poured the martini through the spring strainer into a martini glass, rummaged under the bar, found a jar of olives, and added three to his drink. Then he raised it toward the group of women sitting close together and took a drink.

”Ahhh,“he said.

His movements were too quick, Marcy thought. And his jolliness was too forced, and there was something wrong with him. He’d been so calm when he’d come to the office and tied her up. He’d been-she thought about the right word-he’d been so contented when he’d arrived. Despite being his captive, or maybe because of it, she’d had a certain confidence in him to make this come out all right. Now he frightened her. She looked at Crow. He was unchanged. He was neither calm nor excited, not fast not slow, not kind not cruel. He seemed simply to be who he was.

Crow met her look.

”You’re worried about Jimmy,“ he said.

She didn’t answer.

”The fun part is over now for Jimmy,“ Crow said as if Macklin weren’t there.

”All the planning, putting together the crew, thinking about it, doing it! It’s what Jimmy lives for.“

”What am I?“ Macklin said.

”A fucking Lally column?“

”You know this is true, Jim,“ Crow said.

”You get to this point, job’s done. All you got to do now is get out with the dough. And they might still get you before you do.“

Crow turned his attention back to Marcy.

”That’s what keeps him from crashing.“

”Hey, Crow, maybe you could stop talking about me like I’m a fucking nut case? I know you’re bad, but I’m sort of bad myself and you’re starting to piss me off.“

Crow smiled at Marcy.

”See?“ he said. ”He’s a danger freak.“

Marcy didn’t say anything. She didn’t dare.

”You think I’m afraid of you, Crow?“ Macklin said.

”This will go better, Jimmy,“ Crow said, ”we don’t get to shooting at each other.“

Macklin poured himself another martini.

”You make-um heap good point,“ Macklin said and smiled widely at Marcy.

”Smart Indian, huh Marce?“

Marcy nodded very slightly, trying to be noncommittal.

”You ladies sure you won’t drink something? Loosen up. You got to be here awhile, no reason not to enjoy it.“

The frizzy-haired blond girl said, ”I could have some white wine if you got some.“

”Sure thing, blondie,“ Macklin said.

”Step right up here.“

Still behind the bar, Macklin reached down and got a wine glass and set it on the bar. He took a bottle of California Chardonnay from the refrigerator and pulled the cork and poured the glass three quarters full.

”There you are, blondie.“

Marcy knew the girl wished she hadn’t asked. She hadn’t realized she’d have to walk up there and get it. Separation from the group seemed frightening. She would, Marcy knew, feel isolated at the bar.

”I’ll have a little wine,“ Marcy said.

It was as if she was listening to someone else’s voice.

”That’s the spirit, Marce,“ Macklin said.

She and Patty stood and walked together to the bar and took their wine.

”Stay here,“ Macklin said.

For a moment, the false jollity was gone. It wasn’t an invitation.

It was an order. Which was how they understood it. Macklin raised his glass.

”Success,“ he said.

The two women raised theirs and drank. Marcy was grateful for the thrust of the wine. Even one sip made almost immediate contact with the electrical charge of her fear, and she felt it pulse through her. She took another quick drink. Macklin noticed. The bastard seemed to notice everything.

”Hits the spot,“ Macklin said.

”Happy hour,“ Crow said.

”Feel free to join us,“ Macklin said.

Crow shook his head.

”I think I’ll go check the perimeter,“ he said.

”Nobody’s gonna do squat while we got these women,“ Macklin said.

”Hell, we got a hundred more back in town, we use these up.“

”Nice to have bench strength,“ Crow said.

Macklin looked at his watch.

”Getting on,“ he said.

”Crow, I think it’s time for you to go out and see JD and Fran.“

”There’s a lot of stuff to be carried to the boat,“ Crow said.

”Maybe better to wait.“

Macklin smiled.

”These ladies will help us,“ he said.

”Go ahead.“

Crow nodded and went.

SIXTY-ONE

Jesse went into the water wearing a black neoprene
wet suit and trailing a buoyant equipment bag. There was a Browning 9-mm in the bag and a.38 Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special and a sunbelt. There was also a towel, a police radio, a four battery Maglite, and a change of clothes.

He was a hundred yards offshore on the harbor side of the island, opposite the point on the ocean side where Macklin was holding the hostages. The water was cold, but the wet suit made it tolerable. The shore ahead of him was only a thicker darkness outlined against a paler sky. Above the dark silence of the powerless island, a crescent moon hung faint against the not yet fully gathered darkness. Doc had cut the engines and coasted in as close as he dared. Now he was letting the boat drift away before starting up the engines.

The rising tide made it easy to swim toward shore. Jesse looked back. He couldn’t see the boat. The water was rougher as he got closer to shore, and the waves began to toss him among the rocks.

He maneuvered through them by pushing himself away from them. The rocks were slick with seaweed and rough with barnacles.

He couldn’t touch bottom yet. A clump of seaweed brushed his leg, and he felt the panic he’d always felt when he was over his head. It wasn’t drowning. He was terrified of sharks or, even more namelessly, of whatever might be lurking down there in the unfathomable space below, rising slowly toward his disembodied legs dangling against the surface of the water like bait. He felt the frantic impulse for a moment to climb up onto one of the rocks and cling there in useless safety. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. In, he said to himself as he breathed, out. Be a nice headline.

POLICE CHIEF HIDES ON ROCK AS BANDITS LOOT ISLAND. He kept moving, breathing deeply, talking to himself, repelling gently from rock to rock, trying not to bang hard against one. If there’s something down there, it won’t know I’m a cop. There hasn’t been a shark fatality in Massachusetts since 1938. Then he felt bottom and in another moment was able to stand. Still under pressure from the waves, he moved among the rock scatter closer to shore until he reached a sort of V-shaped gully in the rocks, where the seawater churned into a creamy foam. He scrambled up the gully and out of the ocean. At the top of the gully was some scrub pine, and he used it to climb the final few feet onto level ground. He was in a grove of white pine maybe a half mile farther out on the island from the yacht club. He knew where he was. He and Doc had planned for him to come out there because it would shelter him.

He stripped off the wet suit, toweled himself dry, shivering. It was too late in September to be standing naked at the edge of the water at night. He put on sneakers and jeans and a dark blue tee shirt. He strapped his gun belt on, with the Browning behind his right hip, and the .38 butt forward in front of his left. He clipped on the radio. There were two extra magazines for the Browning on the belt and a metal loop for the flashlight. He put on a blue windbreaker with gray Polartec lining and turned up the collar. The warmth was heartening. He clipped the radio mike to the collar. He took out of the flotation bag a zipper sandwich bag full of.38 special ammunition, stuck it in the side pocket of the windbreaker, and zipped the pocket. He rolled up the wet suit and the flotation bag and tossed them down into the surf at the foot of the rock gully.

Then he turned and shrugged his shoulders to loosen them and shook his wrists and breathed deeply like a method actor before a scene.

Jesse looked at the roadway, thirty yards from the pine grove.

There were no street lights. There was no electricity on the island since the bridge blew. The bank had its own generator, so that no one could get trapped in the vault by a power failure. But he wasn’t anywhere near the bank, and he was pretty sure that light wasn’t his friend anyway. If he followed that road for maybe two miles he would reach the restaurant on the other side where the chopper had taken fire. He breathed deep again. In. Out. In. Out.

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.