The Welcoming (16 page)

“I get the same total again, Roger.” Puzzled, she tapped the end of her pencil on the list. “I wish I could say I'd run it through the computer, but . . .” She let her words trail off, ignoring her headache. “Ah, this might be it. Do you have the Wentworths in cabin 1 down for a bottle of wine? They charged it night before last.”

“Wentworth, Wentworth . . .” With grating slowness, Block ran down his list. “No, nothing here.”

“Let me find the tab.” After opening a drawer, she flipped her way efficiently through the folders. Roman felt a bead of sweat slide slowly down his back. One of the agents strolled over to browse through some postcards.

“I've got both copies,” she said with a shake of her head. “This virus is really hanging us up.” She filed her copy of the receipt and handed Block his.

“No problem.” Cheerful as ever, he noted the new charge, then added up his figures again. “That seems to match.”

With the ease of long habit, Charity calculated the amount in Canadian currency. “That's $2,330.00.” She turned the receipt around for Block's approval.

He clicked open his briefcase. “As always, it's a pleasure.” He counted out the money in twenties. The moment Charity marked the bill Paid, Roman moved in.

“Put your hands up. Slow.” He pressed the barrel of his gun into the small of Block's back.

“Roman!” Charity gaped at him, the key to the cash drawer in her hand. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Go around the desk,” he told her. “Way around, and walk outside.”

“Are you crazy? Roman, for God's sake—”

“Do it!”

Block moistened his lips, keeping his hands carefully aloft. “Is this a robbery?”

“Haven't you figured it out by now?” With his free hand, Roman pulled out his ID. After tossing it on the desk, he reached for his cuffs. “You're under arrest.”

“What's the charge?”

“Conspiracy to murder, counterfeiting, transporting known felons across international borders. That'll do for a start.” He yanked one of Block's arms down and slipped the cuff over his wrist.

“How could you?” Charity's voice was a mere whisper. She held his badge in her hand.

He took his eyes off Block for only a second to look at her. One second changed everything.

“How silly of me,” Miss Millie muttered as she waltzed back into the lobby. “I was nearly upstairs when I realized I'd left my—”

For a man of his bulk, Block moved quickly. He dragged Miss Millie against him and had a knife to her throat before anyone could react. The cuffs dangled from one wrist. “It'll only take a heartbeat,” he said quietly, staring into Roman's eyes. The gun was trained in the center of Block's forehead, and Roman's finger was twitching on the trigger.

“Think about it.” Block's gaze swept the lobby, where other guns had been drawn. “I'll slice this nice little lady's throat. Don't move,” he said to Charity. Shifting slightly, he blocked her way.

Wide-eyed, Miss Millie could only cling to Block's arm and whimper.

“Don't hurt her.” Charity stepped forward, but she stopped quickly when she saw Block's grip tighten. “Please, don't hurt her.” It had to be a dream, she told herself. A nightmare. “Someone tell me what's happening here.”

“The place is surrounded.” Roman kept his eyes and his weapon on Block. He waited in vain for one of his men to move in from the rear. “Hurting her isn't going to do you any good.”

“It isn't going to do you any good, either. Think about it. Want a dead grandmother on your hands?”

“You don't want to add murder to your list, Block,” Roman said evenly. And Charity was much too close, he thought. Much too close.

“It makes no difference to me. Now take it outside. All of you!” His voice rose as he scanned the room. “Toss down the guns. Toss them down and get out before I start slicing into her. Do it.” He nicked Miss Millie's fragile throat with the blade.

“Please!” Again Charity took a step forward. “Let her go. I'll stay with you.”

“Damn it, Charity, get back.”

She didn't spare Roman a glance. “Please, Roger,” she said again, taking another careful step forward. “She's old and frail. She might get sick. Her heart.” Desperate, she stepped between him and Roman's gun. “I won't give you any trouble.”

The decision took Block only a moment. He grabbed Charity and dug the point of the blade into her throat. Miss Millie slid bonelessly to the floor.

“Drop the gun.” He saw the fear in Roman's eyes and smiled. Apparently he'd made a much better bargain. “Two seconds and it's over. I don't have anything to lose.”

Roman held his hands up, letting his weapon drop. “We'll talk.”

“We'll talk when I'm ready.” Block shifted the knife so that the length of the blade lay across Charity's neck. She shut her eyes and waited to die. “Get out, now. The first time somebody tries to get back in she dies.”

“Out.” Roman pointed to the door. “Keep them back, Conby. All of them. There's my weapon,” he said to Block. “I'm clean.” He lifted his jacket cautiously to show his empty holster. “Why don't I hang around in here? You can have two hostages for the price of one. A federal agent ought to give you some leverage.”

“Just the woman. Take off, DeWinter, or I'll kill her before you can think how to get to me. Now.”

“For God's sake, Roman. Get her out of here. She needs a doctor.” Charity sucked in her breath when the point of the knife pierced her skin.

“Don't.” Roman held up his hands again, palms out, as he moved toward the crumpled form near the desk. Keeping his movements slow, he gathered the sobbing woman in his arms. “If you hurt her, you won't live long enough to regret it.”

With that last frustrated threat he left Charity alone.

“Stay back.” After bundling Miss Millie into waiting arms, he rushed off the porch, fighting to keep his mind clear. “Nobody goes near the doors or any of the windows. Get me a weapon.” Before anyone could oblige him, he was yanking a gun away from one of Royce's deputies. With the smallest of gestures Royce signaled to his man to be silent.

“What do you want us to do?”

Roman merely stared down at the gun in his hand. It was loaded. He was trained. And he was helpless.

“DeWinter . . .” Conby began.

“Back off.” When Conby started to speak again, Roman turned on him. “Back off.”

He stared at the inn. He could hear Miss Millie crying softly as someone carried her to a car. The guests who had already been evacuated were being herded to safety. Roman imagined that Royce had arranged that. Charity would want to make sure they were well taken care of.

Charity.

Shoving the gun into his holster, he turned around. “Have the road blocked off a mile in each direction. Only official personnel in this area. We'll keep the inn surrounded from a distance of fifty feet. He'll be thinking again,” Roman said slowly, “and when he starts thinking he's going to know he's blocked in.”

He lifted both hands and rubbed them over his face. He'd been in hostage situations before. He was trained for them. With time and cool heads, the odds of getting a hostage out in a situation of this type were excellent. When the hostage was Charity, excellent wasn't nearly good enough.

“I want to talk to him.”

“Agent DeWinter, under the circumstances I have serious reservations about you being in charge of this operation.”

Roman rounded on him. “Get in my way, Conby, and I'll hang you up by your silk tie. Why the hell weren't there men positioned in the back, behind him?”

Because his palms were sweating, Conby's voice was only more frigid. “I thought it best to have them outside, prepared if he attempted to run.”

Roman battled the red wave of fury that burst behind his eyes. “When I get her out,” he said softly, “I'm going to deal with you, you bastard. I need communication,” he said to Royce. “Can you handle it?”

“Give me twenty minutes.”

With a nod, Roman turned back to study the inn. Systematically he considered and rejected points of entry.

Inside, Charity felt some measure of relief when the knife was removed from her throat. Somehow the gun Block was pointing at her now seemed less personal.

“Roger—”

“Shut up. Shut up and let me think.” He swiped a beefy forearm over his brow to dry it. It had all happened so fast, too fast. Everything up to now he had done on instinct. As Roman had calculated, he was beginning to think.

“They've got me trapped in here. I should've used you to get to one of the cars, should've taken off.” Then he laughed, looking wildly around the lobby. “We're on a damn island. Can't drive off an island.”

“I think if we—”

“Shut up!” he shouted and had her holding her breath as he leveled the gun at her. “I'm the one who needs to think. Feds. That sniveling little wart was right all along,” he muttered, thinking of Bob. “He made DeWinter days ago. Did you?” As he asked, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back to hold the barrel against her throat.

“No. I didn't know. I didn't. I still don't understand.” She could only give a muffled cry when he slammed her back against the wall. She'd never seen murder in a man's eyes before, but she recognized it. “Roger, think. If you kill me you won't have anything to bargain with.” She tasted fear on her tongue as she forced the words out. “You need me.”

“Yeah.” He relaxed his grip. “You've been handy so far. You'll just have to go on being handy. How many ways in and out of this place?”

“I—I don't really know.” She sucked in her breath when he gave her hair another cruel twist.

“You know how many two-by-fours are in this place.”

“Five. There are five exits, not counting the windows. The lobby, the gathering room, the outside steps running to my quarters and a family suite in the east wing, and the back, through the utility room off the kitchen.”

“That's good.” Panting a bit, he considered the possibilities. “The kitchen. We'll take the kitchen. I'll have water and food there in case this takes a while. Come on.” He kept a hand in her hair and the gun at the base of her neck.

***

His eyes on the inn, Roman paced back and forth behind the barricade of police cars. She was smart, he told himself. Charity was a smart, sensible woman. She wouldn't panic. She wouldn't do anything stupid.

Oh, God, she must be terrified. He lit a cigarette from the butt of another, but he didn't find himself soothed as the harsh smoke seared into him.

“Where's the goddamn phone?”

“Nearly ready.” Royce pushed back his hat and straightened from where he'd been watching a lineman patch in a temporary line. “My nephew,” he explained to Roman with a thin smile. “The boy knows his job.”

“You got a lot of relatives.”

“I'm lousy with them. Listen, I heard you and Charity were getting married. That part of the cover?”

“No.” Roman thought of the picnic on the beach, that one clear moment in time. “No.”

“In that case, I'm going to give you some advice. You're wrong,” he said, before Roman could speak. “You do need it. You're going to have to get yourself calm, real calm, before you pick up that phone. A trapped animal reacts two ways. He either cowers back and gives up or he strikes out at anything in his way.” Royce nodded toward the inn. “Block doesn't look like the type to give up easy, and Charity sure as hell's in his way. That line through yet, son?”

“Yes, sir.” The young lineman's hands were sweaty with nerves and excitement. “You can dial right through.” He passed the damp receiver to Roman.

“I don't know the number,” Roman murmured. “I don't know the damn number.”

“I know it.”

Roman swung around to face Mae. In that one instant he saw everything he felt about himself mirrored in her eyes. There would be time for guilt later, he told himself. There would be a lifetime for it. “Royce, you were supposed to clear the area.”

“Moving Maeflower's like moving a tank.”

“I don't budge until I see Charity.” Mae firmed her quivering lips. “She's going to need me when she comes out. Waste of time to argue,” she added, “You want the number?”

“Yes.”

She gave it to him. Tossing his cigarette aside, Roman dialed.

Charity jolted in the chair when the phone rang. Across the table, Block simply stared at it. He had had her pile everything she could drag or carry to block the two doors. Extra chairs, twenty-pound canisters of flour and sugar, the rolling butcher block, iron skillets, all sat in a jumble, braced against both entrances.

In the silent kitchen the phone sounded again and again, like a scream.

“Stay right where you are.” Block moved across the room to answer it. “Yeah?”

“It's DeWinter. Thought you might be ready to talk about a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“That's what we have to talk about. First I have to know you've still got Charity.”

“Have you seen her come out?” Block spit into the phone. “You know damn well I've got her or you wouldn't be talking to me.”

“I have to make sure she's still alive. Let me talk to her.”

“You can go to hell.”

Threats, abuse, curses, rose like bile in his throat. Still, when he spoke, his voice was dispassionate. “I verify that you still have a hostage, Block, or we don't deal.”

“You want to talk to her?” Block gestured with the gun. “Over here,” he ordered. “Make it fast. It's your boyfriend,” he told Charity when she stood beside him. “He wants to know how you're doing. You tell him you're just fine.” He brushed the gun up her cheek to rest it at her temple. “Understand?”