Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  Noel heard car tires on gravel. Good, here’s Kyra. She hadn’t wrecked the car. An ungenerous thought. He watched through the window as she parked, got out and walked to the house. She’s going to be pissed off at the thought of someone threatening us. Maybe he shouldn’t tell her. Most likely they’d be leaving tomorrow anyway. Sure, that’d be best. He walked into the hall. She stepped into the doorway. “Hi Kyra.”

  She stared at him. “What’s wrong?”

  Had his face given him away? “What makes you say that?”

  She didn’t know. Something about his gestalt—what? Anxious? “You’re standing somehow funny.”

  He did an exaggerated lean to the right. “That better?” Big grin.

  She hesitated before saying, quietly, “No.”

  “Well then, want a drink before we go to Peter’s?”

  She did. “I’ll make it. One for you?” From his light, wordless nod, she knew something was indeed off. To the kitchen, glasses, ice, vodka, lime, tonic topping. He had followed her, timidly she had to say, from the hall. She handed him a glass and raised hers. “To a case completed, if not fully satisfactorily.”

  He had to tell her. Because he had to tell Peter. Jordan Beck might become a bigger problem than he’d seemed. “Yes. A case completed.” They both sipped.

  She said, “What’s going on?”

  She was uncanny. He couldn’t get away with not sharing the threat. So he took a long drink, and told her.

  She listened, then put on an ironic grin. “Maybe our boy Beck is more than you saw on his surface. Or in what he’s written. I think I should meet him.”

  “That’s precisely what the threat’s about. We’ve done all we can for Peter. And we leave tomorrow. I hope.” Another good swallow of vodka-tonic.

  “We need to deal with the threat. There’s time after we meet Peter’s friend.”

  “Actually there may not be. Rossini’s coming back early. We’re talking with him at 7:30.”

  “We’ll find Beck right after.”

  “We’re done with Beck.”

  “Okay, you go to bed. I’ll track him down.”

  “No. I won’t lend you the car.”

  “I still have the keys.” She dangled them.

  “Oh for godsake!” He turned to the window. “Finish your drink. We’ve got to meet Peter’s friend.”

  “I’ll have it when we get back here.” She opened the freezer and set the glass inside. “And I’m driving.”

  Larry Rossini had left Seattle maybe half an hour too late, in a herd of commuters all moving along at forty-seven miles per hour. Boxed in, no way around. He’d made a ferry reservation, and felt damn lucky to get it. He could still get to Anacortes in time. Unless the traffic slowed yet more. Some of the fear he’d felt for Susanna had subsided because he’d taken action. Of course Franklin and his partner might decide they didn’t want to search for Susanna, and then he’d be back in his ineptitude. But he had a feeling about Franklin, from that brief meeting this morning, that he’d work out.

  Leaving Toni was hard. She’d tried to convince him to stay, nothing he could do for Susanna on San Juan, the kidnappers would call when they promised and not till then. Her logic was correct, and he agreed, but didn’t say so. He was, after all, returning home only to meet the investigators. Suddenly a car on his left pulled ahead and snuck in front with barely three car lengths between his SUV and a Mazda pickup. His instinct was to slam down hard on the horn. He held back. Everyone had somewhere to be right away. He glanced at the clock. Just after five. He’d be at the terminal in half an hour. He’d make it okay.

  How much would he tell the investigators about the Project? Likely they had no scientific training, so he needn’t get into details. They’d have to sign Nondisclosure Certificate Three, the most stringent. They might balk. Can’t be helped. He couldn’t tell them a thing without their commitment to absolute secrecy. Just as Marc and Charlie had signed. After long objection. But only by their signing could the members of the Project team talk to anyone from the Sheriff’s office. For all the good it had done in finding Susanna.

  The northbound traffic slowed to thirty mph. Interesting, no cars coming toward them across the barrier. Must be an accident in the southbound lane. And a lot of rubbernecking up ahead. Damn!

  NINE

  KYRA PARKED IN front of Peter Langley’s home but sat for a moment. “After we’ve met the guest, I’ll try to get him away from Peter so you can tell him about the threat.”

  “Good.”

  They got out, walked to the front door, and knocked. The door opened halfway. No one there. They looked down. A small boy of five or six beamed up at them. “Hello!”

  The face in the picture from Peter’s wallet. “Hello. I’m Noel. Who are you?”

  “Jeremiah.”

  “And I’m Kyra.” She smiled. The photograph in Peter’s desk drawer. Blond curls, ruddy cheeks with dimples, green eyes, and that large grin.

  Jeremiah opened the door the whole way. “Come in.”

  They stepped through.

  Peter, followed by Delilah, arrived. “I see you’ve met.”

  “Jeremiah introduced himself,” said Kyra.

  “He’s my son.”

  “I know.”

  A quizzical look but Peter said only, “Jeremiah has just come over from Orcas.”

  “By yourself?” Delilah rubbed against Noel’s legs.

  “My mom brought me and my dad was waiting. The ride was wavy.”

  “Big rollers, were there?”

  Jeremiah nodded, and looked up at his father.

  Peter said, “Jeremiah and I made some punch. Care for a glass?” He grinned. “I can pour vodka in yours. And mine.”

  “I don’t want any vo’ka,” announced Jeremiah.

  “Okay then, no vo’ka for you.”

  Kyra said, looking at the boy, “Why don’t Jeremiah and I get the punch. Lead on.” But Delilah led. The kitchen’s her domain, Kyra thought.

  Peter said to Noel, “We can sit in the living room.” They sat at opposite ends of the sofa. “So, what d’you think?”

  “Looks like a great kid. Must be hard not having him with you.”

  “He is, and it is. But I couldn’t stay in the marriage just for the boy.”

  “I thought you only had him weekends?”

  “Yeah, but Marianne still has friends here and she comes over to spend a couple of evenings a month with them. She lets Jeremiah stay with me. They’ll catch the nine o’clock back. Only in the summer—harder to arrange things like that after September.”

  Noel nodded. He didn’t want to worry Peter when he was looking forward to an evening with Jeremiah. But he had to tell him. “Look, I don’t think this is very important, but you should know.” How to phrase it best?

  “Go on.”

  “I had a phone call this afternoon. A voice I didn’t recognize. Some accent, maybe trying to disguise the voice. He threatened me, told me to drop the case and get off the island.”

  “Sounds like deep intrigue to me.”

  “It was not a joke.”

  “How can it be a problem? You’re leaving after talking with Larry anyway, right?”

  “Thinking about it. But we’re worried about you. Kyra wants to talk to Beck.”

  “Oh, let it go. I’m satisfied. And I’m sure the department will be too.”

  “We don’t like loose ends, Peter.”

  “But aren’t you worried for yourselves?”

  “We’re always worried. So we’re always careful.” True for him, less so for Kyra.

  “I don’t want you to have problems because of my non-problem.”

  “And we don’t want you to have any further complications with Beck.”

  Peter shrugged. “For me, I’m glad you’re going to be around a little longer. Maybe we could—”

  “Punch all around,” said Kyra, entering with a tray of four glasses.

  “The big red one’s for me,” said Jeremiah. “There
’s no vo’ka in it.”

  Glasses taken, drinks sipped. Kyra and Noel agreed it was delicious punch. They talked about Jeremiah’s first year in real school, about where Peter and his son were going for dinner—“Hamburgers!” Jeremiah announced—about the movie they’d watch when they got back. Only the first half, second half was for next weekend. And what did he do when his mother went to work? asked Kyra. Oh, she ran a daycare and Jeremiah stayed with her and the other kids.

  They finished their drinks, refused a second, delighted to have met Jeremiah. They left. Not till they were in the car did she say, “Marianne’s a single mom and she’s raised a super kid. So you see it can be done.”

  “She’s only been a single mother for eight months. They were a family before then.”

  “There are lots of women around who raise kids without a husband.”

  “Some better, some worse. None of the ones I know are private investigators.”

  Kyra had not yet turned the key. She turned to Noel and smiled sweetly. “We’ve got a bit more than an hour before our appointment. Supper? And a beer.”

  “You can have the beer. And then I’ll drive.”

  “To track down Jordan Beck?”

  “To track down Beck.”

  He had told her his name was Hank. But he didn’t look like a Hank. A Hank had to be an ironic older gentleman. He seemed more like a Sam or a Dave or maybe a Charlie. Something about his body movements when she addressed him as Hank? A lack of recognition around his mouth yesterday when she’d said, “Thanks, Hank,” as he set her dinner on the table? This evening she’d study his eyes when she called him Hank. Hard to do; the mask didn’t give much away. Eyes tell you a lot, but the lids and brows help more.

  Her watch said 6:00. He’d be here soon. She was anticipating that. The arrival of her captor? Sounded weird, but dinner was the high point of her day. Though all of today had been good. Yesterday he’d brought the books she needed, and for the last six hours she’d been reading Victorian poetry—Browning, Arnold, Tennyson mainly. Without studying, the weeks had dragged. Susanna couldn’t remember when she’d last had two-plus weeks not doing academic work. She’d quit reading half an hour ago; she’d been sitting too long. Five minutes of stretches, then she moved the books from the arborite table to the bedside table.

  Yep, hungry. She saw herself in her own kitchen rummaging for food. Yet it was a treat to be presented with good meals she hadn’t cooked. A kidnapper chef, weird. Still, she’d rather have freedom, thank you.

  Susanna took large, crouching, stretching steps around her prison cell, bashing the air with her arms. Any exercise felt good. She pretended she was running down a hill, the wind in her face, Hank in his stupid mask beside her—

  Why was she turned on? His thoughtfulness? Because he was the only man she’d seen in weeks? Because he cooked? Left her a sandwich when he went somewhere? His gentleness appealed to her. Also he had excellent hands, strong but with delicate fingers that, she imagined, would feel firm and gentle on her body. Though she could hardly be of interest to him—she saw herself regularly in the mirror and knew she looked heavy and schlumpy in her baggy jeans and loose shirts. Despite which she had a real yearning, an itch in need of a scratch, for Hank. What if she got undressed, slid under the sheet; when he came in she’d fake sleeping, then groan as if she felt ill and he’d come over to her and touch her brow to see if she had a fever and she’d reach for his hand and kiss it and bring those slender fingers to her breast? What would he do then? Yeah, well, this all needed some thought. A plan.

  Actually what she needed most was food. She would starve if he didn’t return. But every day he did return.

  Aha, the knock. She jumped onto the bed like the well-trained captive she’d become. The key scraped in the lock, sound of deadbolt sliding—

  In came Hank, pushing the dinner cart again, top level laden with plates, plastic knives and forks, wooden servers, a bottle of wine and real wine glasses. Also two frying pans, covered. On the lower level, two white plastic bags. Eyes on her, he turned the deadbolt. The ski mask! Again. He set the bag on the floor.

  “Hi. You all right?”

  “Hi. Sure. Why?”

  He smiled, shrugged. “Just wondered.”

  “Why’ve you got that balaclava on again?”

  “Keeping warm from the wind.”

  “Oh? It’s windy out?”

  “No, it’s sunny.”

  “Could you take it off?”

  “You really want me to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He reached behind his head and pulled it up from his nape, slowly, slowly, a skull striptease. He rolled it over his crown, then quickly from his face.

  Susanna gasped.

  Fredric laughed. Underneath, his Arlechino mask. “Better?”

  “Yeah,” she scowled, “but not great.”

  “Sorry. As far as I can go.”

  “Who says?” But she knew his answer.

  “Can’t tell you. You hungry?”

  “Actually, famished.” She leaned over the cart. “What’ve you got?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Fredric grabbed one of the plastic bags from the lower level and pulled out some material. He spread it on the table.

  “A tablecloth!” First time. She watched as he set the table, two places, and put the wine bottle in the middle. White. More cloth? Napkins. Hmm. Also on the lower level, an oven mitt beside the other bag. He put on the mitt and transferred the two frying pans to the table. She got off the bed, stepped into her sandals and walked toward him. She felt immensely domestic. She could stand beside him, touch his shoulder, look through the small openings in the mask and into his eyes, put her cheek to his—well, to the mask. Instead she stopped at the opposite side of the table and reached toward one of the frying pan covers. “May I look?”

  “Careful! That’s hot.” He handed her the mitt. “Use this.”

  She put it on. Pleasant to have something on her hand that he’d just worn. She lifted the lid. Two fish, lying on their sides, well grilled.

  “Trout almondine.” He sounded proud. He uncovered the other. Steamed potatoes sprinkled with chives and garlic.

  “Looks wonderful.”

  “Thanks.” He took a corkscrew from his pocket, slit away the shrink-wrap from the wine and worked out the cork.

  Susanna thought: first weapon he’s ever brought in, grab it—But then what? Stab him? Hardly.

  He poured wine into the glasses. “Pinot Grigio,” he said.

  “What’s so special tonight?”

  “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, looking into her eyes.

  She saw gentle, caring eyes. Hank? Wrong name. “Cheers,” she repeated.

  They sipped, watching each other. Suddenly his hand trembled and he set his glass down. The softness of his eyes seemed to quiver. Control yourself! he thought. He’s nervous about something, she realized. Better do this right now, he figured.

  He went to the cart, grabbed the other plastic bag and handed it to her. “I bought you a present yesterday in Seattle.”

  She took it. “Tablecloth, fancy food, and a present?”

  “Open it.”

  She did, and her mouth gaped. She unfolded a dark green silk dress, sleeves to elbows, low-cut neckline, little buttons down to the draping skirt. All she could say was, “I don’t have a present for you.”

  “Go on, try it on.”

  She floated to the bathroom, stripped off her jeans and shirt, unbuttoned the front of the dress. She stepped into the skirt, slipped her arms into the sleeves and rebuttoned. Perfect fit at the waist, and the bosom of the dress felt designed for her. She pulled the front down to show a little more cleavage. All those times when he looked at her, was he measuring her? If so, he had a very good eye. If he could dress her this easily, had he mentally undressed her too? She suddenly felt shy. The dress needed heels. Second best, bare feet. She flicked off her sandals and smoothed the skirt. She checked her face in
the mirror, picked up the hairbrush, a few passes, she looked okay. Except for the darkening roots. She opened the door and stepped into the room.

  Hank or whatever his name was stared at her. What a direction for a kidnapping to take. She walked around the table, and stood inches from him. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek below the mask. “It’s a lovely dress.” She stepped back.

  His lips, what she could see, seemed to be smiling. “You look lovely in it.”

  For a long moment they stared at each other. Hank said, “The trout’ll be getting cold,” which broke their mutual concentration. “Let’s eat.”

  “Good,” she said, smiling. “I’m starved.” She sat opposite.

  He lifted off the lid. With the servers, he slid one of the fish onto her plate. She watched him serve himself the second fish, and then potatoes for both.

  The feel of the mask on her lips had weirded her a little—rough and leathery and cool, not the pleasant warmth of his skin. A lustful part of her wanted to pull the mask off. Her rational part said, Don’t be stupid. She heeded her more intelligent self and picked up her knife and fork.

  He sat, and raised his glass. “Bon appétit.”

  She did the same. “And to you.” They both sipped. And without thinking, Susanna said, “Why did you get me this dress?”

  “Because you needed something more beautiful than those seedy jeans and shirts.”

  “I have the white dress I wore that day you kidnapped me—”

  “The day you came here.” He smiled. “The day we met.”

  Was he playing with her, flirting with her? “You teasing me?”

  “A little,” he conceded. “Like you’re teasing me, right?”

  She veered away from his question by taking her first bite of trout. “Delicious. Just delicious.” She took another bite, then some potato. Was she teasing him? Not intentionally. Or did he mean with the way she looked right now? She glanced down at the front of her dress. What she saw confirmed what she was feeling. Her nipples had gone hard and their tips pushed against the thin silk. She needed a good sip of wine. She took it. Change the subject. “You’re a very fine cook, Hank.”