A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  “Okay.” He placed the pad facedown on his lap, not to hide his notes but because he didn't need them. “The timing of everything that's happened has always bothered me. First, two gangbangers broke into my apartment and stole information out of my Palm Pilot. Then there was the phone call from some unidentified person at the hospital the night Patricia Hunter was killed. So, okay, somebody's trying to set me up. That's simple enough. Especially when you put it together with the country house that Cannonball and I found with all the porno on the walls.”

  She interrupted. “And on your computer at work.”

  “Right. Make it nasty, and everyone will abandon the little orphan boy.”

  Natalie pushed her hair back with one hand and laughed. “Little orphan boy with a trust fund and a Harvard education.”

  Scott smiled. “I wasn't trying to sound pitiful. Just telling why Kate and Click thought it would work. I have no real family. And who else stands by perverts who smother older women in their sleep?”

  Natalie leaned back away from him and squirmed in her chair. “God.”

  “Sorry. But what I'm getting to is this—when I outlined everything that had been done to frame me, which I thought was almost overkill, Click just laughs and says there was nothing to it. Something to the effect of ‘all we did was make a few calls, break into your crib a couple of times, and put some porno in a rented house.'”

  Natalie was leaning toward him again, focusing—both elbows propped on the table, her cheeks resting on closed fists. “So . . . I'm trying here, Scott. But I don't see . . .”

  “I think Click was telling the truth,” Scott said. “He was planning to kill me at the time, so why lie?”

  She sat back in exasperation. “I still don't get your point.”

  “I'm not there yet.”

  “Well, get there.”

  “Sorry. This is it. Click didn't know about Bobby. But Bobby knew about him and about Cannonball and about me. And look at when my long-lost brother decides to show up. Right at the point in my life when I've been accused of murder. Right when I need help. Think about it. What was it? Destiny? Karma? I don't believe in that stuff.”

  Natalie shook her head. “Neither do I.”

  “So what's that leave?”

  “Maybe somebody brought Bobby into the picture. Maybe . . . hell, I don't know.”

  “Well”—Scott stood again—“I still think that someone higher up in the world than Click was pulling strings.”

  “Kate?”

  He shook his head. “Remember Dr. Reynolds? We were supposed to be standing out there with him. No. No way. Both Click and Kate wanted us dead. I mean, we don't know for sure it was Click, but you'll never convince me . . .”

  Natalie stood and walked over to stand facing Scott. “Me, either.” She slapped her head. “God! The other e-mails to the hospital. Come inside. I need to show you something.”

  CHAPTER 44

  The courtesy golf cart bounced and weaved over the island's sandy roads. Natalie sat in the passenger seat, a nylon windbreaker zipped up tight over a sweater and jeans. Scott manned the tiny steering wheel.

  “I feel like a dork.”

  Natalie looked over in the dark and grinned. His curls were soaked, his glasses misted with rainwater. “You look like a dork.”

  “Thanks.” He came to a jolting stop at a wooden street sign and leaned forward to peer through dripping lenses. “Which way?”

  She shone a tiny penlight on a map of the island. “Right . . . I think.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sort of.”

  Scott turned right. Five minutes later, Charles Hunter's house came into view. Scott slowed, then pulled off the road to guide the cart around a dune to a clump of seagrass and brambles. They both stepped out without speaking. Natalie, whose vision was better even when it wasn't raining, led the way. Staying low, she cut alongside the last fifty yards of roadway before turning off to the right away from Hunter's house.

  It was a beautiful place. Copper roof and weathered cedar. Leaded glass and stonework. The yard was softly lit by glowing globes of varying sizes—like some alien life-form had deposited giant, luminescent eggs among the rock outcroppings and natural flows of vegetation surrounding the house. It was just enough. Strange and beautiful.

  Natalie hunkered behind a rock. “It's too well lighted. They're gonna see us if we go up there.”

  Scott nodded. “If anybody's looking.”

  “Would ‘duh' be an inappropriate—”

  “Do you sit in your living room at night watching outside for peeping Toms or burglars or some other kind of bad guy?”

  “Well”—Natalie sighed—“no.”

  “Neither does anyone else. They'll watch the sea, if anything. Maybe glance out at the front drive once in a while if they're expecting someone.”

  “So you've done this before?”

  “It's just human nature.”

  She shrugged, and Scott trotted off to approach the house from the darkest side. It was easy enough. No one lights the side of a house next to a child's bedroom, not unless they like torturing a sleepy kid. In minutes, he was beside the house and looking through an open window.

  A little girl sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom. A dozen pages of notebook paper were spread out around her. She leaned forward and marked in a textbook with a highlighter.

  Easing carefully along the outside wall, Scott ducked under her window and made it to just outside the living room. The glass door was open. Music floated out, mixing with the sounds of rain and surf.

  The only thing that saved him was Kate calling out through the open door. “Charles?”

  Less than five paces to Scott's left, a male voice answered. “Is it time?”

  “You said eight, right?”

  Scott began easing backward. He'd gotten close because the storm covered his footfalls. He hit a shadowed corner where two walls formed an inside angle, and he squatted down to watch.

  The dark form of Charles Hunter rose up on the stone patio. He paused and looked out at the ocean, then placed a tumbler on a table before turning to go inside. Just outside the glass door, the famous architect paused and turned back toward the beach. “Is that you?”

  Scott could hear his own heartbeat. He tried not even to breathe.

  Again, “Is that you? Answer me.”

  Scott could see Hunter's face now. The man's hair was plastered against his skull. Water ran from the tip of his nose and dripped from thick eyebrows. His pants, beneath the protection of a green slicker, were soaked. Scott wondered why Hunter had been drinking alone on his patio, in the pouring rain, without an umbrella or hat. He studied the man's features. Tension tugged at Hunter's voice when he spoke. Lines cut worried paths in his tanned face.

  Seconds passed. Finally, Hunter stepped inside, then closed and locked the glass door.

  That was enough. Scott made good time getting back to the dark side of the house, and he was getting ready for a dash across the roadway when the engine of Hunter's ragtop Jeep roared to life.

  Headlights swept the house, and Scott dropped onto his stomach in wet sand. In no time, Hunter was past the spot where they had hidden the golf cart, and Scott started to run. He hoped Natalie would understand enough to meet him back at the cart. If she didn't, he wondered if he would still go. Every second counted, since he needed to follow Hunter's Jeep and a golf cart was going to be a pitiful way to do it.

  He was in the cart when he saw Natalie running toward him. “Wait!”

  Scott spun the cart around and was pointed out toward the road by the time she jumped in beside him. “Hold on.”

  Scott swerved onto the road and stomped the little electric go-pedal. Natalie reached over to grab his hand. “This is ridiculous. We could run faster than this.”

  He nodded. “But not as far. Just see if you can tell which way his headlights are going.”

  “Look!” Natalie pointed off to the right. “He's headed north.”

&
nbsp; “Good.”

  “Why good?”

  “There's not much on that end of the island yet. We'll be able to find his Jeep.”

  Scott stopped the tiny cart in the middle of a sandy road. Cool rainwater shot through the cart in gusts, drenching already drenched clothes and sending shivers through both occupants. “See anything?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “Know where we are?”

  “Nope.”

  “Mad?”

  “I was sitting right here with you. I got us here as much as you did.” She got out of the cart and walked around. She cussed and got back in. As she sat down, Natalie pointed down the twin beams of their headlights. “Look.”

  A thin man walked slowly toward the cart. He was fifty feet away and strolling through the thunderstorm like it was a sunny afternoon. Scott squinted through misted glasses. “It looks like Bobby.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Can we get the hell out of here, then?”

  Scott hesitated, and Natalie called out his name. He stepped on the accelerator and turned the cart.

  A hoarse voice cut through the wind and rain, the way a rusty hinge creaking open slices into conversation and thought. “I know where he is.”

  Scott cut the lights back toward the approaching figure. “Did you hear that? I think it's Bobby.”

  Natalie grew even more frantic as she recognized Scott's scarred and lonely brother. “Scott!”

  Bobby was only twenty feet away now. His rusty voice came again. “I'll take you to him.”

  Natalie grabbed Scott's arm, and he stepped on the go-pedal. The little cart began to move away down the road. Natalie looked back and gasped.

  Scott tried a backward glance. “What's he doing? Is he running after us?”

  Her nails dug into Scott's arm.

  “Dammit, Natalie. Is he coming?”

  “No.” Her grip relaxed. “He's just standing there alone in the rain. He looks . . .”

  Scott leaned into the rain trying to get a better view of the road. “What? He looks what?”

  “Sad. I don't know why, but he somehow looks sad standing there in the storm.”

  As they crested a small hill, Scott saw the lights of the town square in the distance. Twenty minutes later, they were back in the guest cottage and the message light on the phone was blinking. Scott dialed voice mail. It was Cannonball. The message was simple. “Somebody else's been down here lookin' into your family. Some time back, right around when all this mess started. Bobby took off right after that. Probably didn't know you were alive, either. Not till then. Thought you might wanna know. Oh, sorry to tell you like this, but your little brother has killed at least one person in his life. Spent time in some kinda nut house for doin' it. Be careful.”

  That night, Scott and Natalie showered together to wash away the chill. They cuddled under the homemade quilts that came with the cottage. They listened for Scott's brother and for Kate Billings and for any noise that didn't fit the night. They did not make love. They lay very still and listened.

  CHAPTER 45

  Spinnaker Island had one hotel—a vaguely Victorian affair with stylized trim and a decent restaurant. At least according to the sales rep, the place was pretty good. So, around eleven, Scott and Natalie eschewed the mud-caked golf cart in favor of a leisurely stroll into town.

  It really was a beautiful place.

  Planned developments tend to go one of two ways—big chunks of brick and stucco on postage-stamp lots or overly cute gingerbread cottages with happily painted birdhouses and cute cottages with names over the doors. But Charles Hunter had gotten this one just right. The center of this otherwise sparsely developed island looked like an early-American village. There was a town square surrounded by medical offices, two banks, one bookstore, and half a dozen small markets and shops. The town hall—an imposing structure at the head of the square—was balanced by the hotel at the other end. In between, children played on jungle gyms and people of all ages ate lunches on concrete picnic tables—too many people, in fact, for them all to be residents. It seemed that Charles Hunter's island had become something of a day-trip destination for Carolina mainlanders.

  The designers had valued the imperfect in pursuing perfection. The playground wasn't hidden behind a building or a clump of trees. And, while the design of the buildings clearly had a central guiding hand, they were different enough in materials and design to make the place look real. No carpets of delicate lawn or manicured beds of roses here. The grass was made for running on and the plants looked as though they'd grown undisturbed there for decades.

  Spinnaker Island wasn't cute. It just looked the way an American town should, but probably never had.

  It took only minutes to get a table. When they were seated and had ordered iced tea, Natalie asked if it was her turn.

  Scott scanned the gaggle of happy faces around the other tables. “What do you mean?”

  “We've been talking about timing all day. I want to tell you about my discoveries.”

  Scott turned so that he could watch the entrance to the restaurant.

  “Hello?”

  His eyes moved to Natalie's face. “Sorry.”

  She smiled. “I want to talk about me now.”

  His eyes moved over her face, and he smiled back. “You said you broke the code in the e-mails, but the lists of numbers were nothing but addresses.”

  “That's what I mean.” She took a sip of tea, tore open a third pack of sugar, and dumped it in. “You get to go on and on about timing and guiding influences, and I get one sentence to describe brilliance.”

  “Sorry. Tell me.”

  It was a lot like listening to Peter Budzik describing how he discovered Click's identity on the Internet. The thought sent chills through Scott's gut. The last time he'd seen Budzik, the little hacker had been lying naked in bed with his throat cut. But Natalie was not Budzik.

  She stopped in midsentence. “Are you all right? You look awful.”

  Scott drank some tea. In his mind's eye, he had been thinking of the night before and picturing Bobby, standing alone in the rain and watching his big brother drive away as if fleeing a monster. He shook his head to clear the picture. “Sorry. A lot of bad things have happened . . .”

  She tried to change the subject, but Scott wanted to know what she'd found and how she'd found it. It could be important, he said.

  She looked pleased. “Okay, here it is. I cheated. After staring at a list of numbers for an hour, I called a friend at Boston College. I told him what I had—a list of numbers separated by commas and spaces and with every few numbers in bold. Apparently, Click ain't all that original. My friend said it's an old encryption trick. The bold numbers—and the first number in every e-mail was bolded—tell how many keys to count on the keyboard before starting the code. For example, if the first number is, say, seventeen, you'd start at the upper left key on the keyboard—the one with that squiggly thing at the top—and count across and down until you come to the ‘e.' I remember that one. Anyway, the ‘e' in this case would be the key to the rest of the numbers. If the next number is a six, you don't start back over at the top. You just count over six letters from the ‘e,' which”—she looked at the ceiling and squinted—“I believe is an ‘o.' Then if the next number is a four, you back up to the ‘e' and count over to the ‘y.'” The next word starts with the next bold number.”

  Scott said one word. “Cool.” And he meant it.

  “Yeah.” She grinned. “It kind of is.”

  “But you said the addresses didn't mean anything to you.”

  An effeminate man came over and took their orders. When he left, Scott asked, “Do you remember any of the addresses?”

  She reached down and grabbed her purse. “They're right here. Have a look.”

  He scanned down the list and cussed. “Well, the fifth one is mine.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yeah. I forgot you've never b
een to my apartment in Cambridge.” He studied the other addresses. Most were near the hospital, but otherwise they meant nothing to him. He handed the list back to Natalie as the waiter placed two salads on the table.

  The food was good. Scott tried to make pleasant conversation—to divert Natalie's mind and his own from the task at hand. But when the meal was done and Natalie had ordered coffee, he told her he had to go. “Bobby wanted to talk to me last night. I need to go back and try to find him.”

  Natalie's expression never changed, but the skin around her mouth turned pale. “He scares me, Scott. Do you really have to . . .” Her voice trailed off, the answer obvious.

  “I'll be careful.”

  Natalie laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Bull. I haven't known you that long, but ‘careful' is not how I'd describe you.”

  Scott got up from the table. “Stay in town, okay?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Around lots of people.”

  “Oh.”

  He said, “Back soon,” and headed off across the town green.

  Charles Hunter had not gone to work that morning. Now he sat in his usual chair on the patio and watched Sarah play on the beach. At not quite noon, he was already drinking. His only bow to propriety being in the form of a Bloody Mary rather than his usual single-malt.

  Kate sat on the rock-strewn sand near Sarah. Charles called out for her, and both girls came. He smiled at his daughter. “I've got some grown-up talk to do with Kate. Run along and play for a few minutes.”

  “I want to stay and listen.”

  He shook his head. “Go on, now. I mean it.”

  Sarah kicked at the ground and wandered slowly back out on the beach. Charles waited patiently until she was out of earshot.

  He motioned at a chair. “Please. Sit down.”

  Kate managed to walk just a little too close to her boss as she crossed to the chair and draped one suntanned leg carefully over the other. When she was comfortable, the nanny looked into his eyes. “What is it, Charles?”

  He took a long pull at his drink and plunked it down on the table. “How long have we known each other, Kate?”