Trouble in Paradise (20 page)

”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.