“Kahlil doesn’t have buttons.”
“He’s also not the bomber.”
Hamid stared at me. “I thought they were sure he was. What about that picture of him and Chloe that Parkhurst said they found in that apartment?”
“Planted by the bomber, who also tipped the cops. He knew I suspected Lateef; I told him so.”
“Then who—”
“No time to explain. We’d better get going.”
He rubbed at his wrist where the handcuff had chafed. “This is all so unnecessary. Let me go, and I’ll pay you handsomely.”
“I thought you were broke.”
“I have access to a great deal of money. I hold the keys to Speed’s entire operation; I can tap into his bank accounts.”
Which was why Schechtmann had contrived to get a hold over him. The two were shackled to one another as securely as Hamid was to the seat-belt anchor.
I said, “Money wouldn’t buy my friend’s life back.”
He made a dismissive sound. “One life. What is that, when you can become very rich?”
“Adah would be one more ghost to visit me in my nightmares. I can’t afford that, even if I cared about money. Which I don’t.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“And you’re entitled to your opinion. Now listen carefully: as I was saying, we’ll take our cues from him. You watch and listen. Don’t talk. He’ll probably taunt or threaten you. Don’t react. Let him think you’re resigned, that he’s going to get what he wants. As he warned me, no heroics.”
Hamid shrugged and looked away.
“Is that clear?”
He grunted.
I got out of the MG and studied the marina. The Freia, a yawl of at least forty feet, was in the slip where Mavis’s body had floated, but several of those to either side of her were untenanted. It was quiet there; I could hear only the hum of light traffic on 101 and the cries of seabirds out for their breakfasts. A thick mist hung over the cove, although a quicksilver line had appeared between the cloud cover and the tops of the East Bay hills. I walked around the car and opened the passenger’s door.
“This is supreme stupidity on your part,” Hamid said.
“Shut up.” I took the cuff keys from my jeans pocket, unlocked the ring that held him to the seat-belt anchor and clicked it around my left wrist. Then I squatted and freed his ankles. “Come on.”
He got out, making a great show of overcoming his stiffness.
Joined at the wrist, we walked toward the gate. It looked locked but opened when I touched it. Jimmied latch, and no manager available to fix it on the holiday. I pushed through it and led Hamid along the pier to the Freia.
She was a sleek yawl, hardware and teak damp and shiny from the mist. No one was above decks and when I glanced at the cabin portholes I saw they were tightly covered. No crew in evidence; he planned to take her out alone.
“Go ahead,” I said to Hamid. He stepped awkwardly from the dock to the afterdeck. I followed. The companionway steps were to our left; I motioned him toward them. Dim light shone below. Hamid stopped, resisting.
Briefly I yearned for my .38, which I’d left with Craig Morland. Its weight would have been comforting now. But I was still playing it straight. Would continue to play it straight as long as possible.
I nudged Hamid and we started down the steps.
The main cabin was teak paneled and reasonably spacious; the only light came from a bare bulb on the bulkhead near the bottom of the steps, and shadows gathered in its far reaches. To our left Adah hunched on the settee behind the dinette table, her ankles shackled to one of its supports, her hands tied behind her. She was gaunt-faced and disheveled, but not broken. There was fire in her eyes; it flared higher when she saw me.
I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
I gave Hamid a final nudge. As we came all the way into the cabin he stiffened. I looked to our right toward the galley.
Langley Newton stepped forward in his ducklike gait, holding a snub-nosed pistol. Mr. Duck, who deposited telltale trash in the dumpster behind the building where he had his bomb factory. A factory much closer to his primary target than the bungalow above Brisbane.
Newton was a changed man. Gone was the mild-mannered recluse of San Bruno Mountain. His eyes glittered and his color was high; he stood tall, a contemptuous smile curving his thin lips.
“Good morning, Mr. Hamid,” he said. “I’m sorry I missed you when you stopped by yesterday. No, that’s a lie; having you fall so conveniently into my hands would have ruined the whole game.”
Hamid’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t speak.
“You’re alone?” Newton asked me.
“Yes.”
“You erased the tape?”
I nodded.
“Set the recorder on the table.”
Slowly I took it from the sweatshirt’s pocket and set it down.
“Now unlock the handcuffs.”
I removed the cuff from my wrist, leaving it dangling from Hamid’s. Placed the keys next to the recorder.
Newton motioned for Hamid to come farther inside, near the closed door to the forward cabin. I remained where I was, halfway between him and the steps. He regarded Hamid thoughtfully as he passed him. “My, we look subdued, Mr. Hamid. Afraid, even. But then, men who prey on helpless women usually are cowards.”
Hamid flinched.
Joslyn’s eyes were focused intensely on me. Now they moved to her right. I glanced that way but couldn’t make out what she was trying to indicate.
Newton said to me, “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“I figured it out a while ago.”
“I thought you would. So tell me, how did the show on the Marina Green come off?”
“As you planned it. This scheme must’ve been in the works for a long time.”
“Actually I improvised it bit by bit from the time I found Hamid’s note under my door and realized he’d escaped death at the consulate. I added the final pieces after you came to my house and told me you’d exchange him for Inspector Joslyn. I did have some concern about you locating Hamid in time, but I hoped you’d trace him through Leila. Once you had, it was quite a scramble to get everything in place.”
“And now that you have him—what?”
“My statement to the world will be made.”
“Your statement?”
He looked scornfully at me. “Surely you’ve figured that out by now. My statement is on the evils of diplomatic immunity. I will reveal the reason for the bombings by making an example of this scum.” He jabbed the gun toward Hamid.
“How?”
Newton didn’t reply. His eyes sparked brighter; he drew himself taller. If he hadn’t been so dangerous, I’d have found his oratorical pose comical.
“A few hours’ improvisation,” he said, “and I made an entire city and the federal authorities bend to my will. I kept hundreds of thousands of people on-line, breathless for my next word. By tomorrow I’ll have captured the attention of the entire world. All that, with only a few hours’ planning.”
His statement to the world was now secondary, I realized. So was exacting his revenge on Hamid. Chloe Love and the manner in which she had died was only a dim memory. What mattered to Newton was power. He’d gotten it, and he was glorying in it. The years of hidden criminal activity had nurtured a controlled psychosis; the intoxicating payoff had tipped him right over the edge.
Joslyn said, “McCone asked you a question—how, Newton?”
His gaze shifted to her, which allowed me to look again at where she’d been directing her eyes. Now I saw it: a Very pistol for shooting distress flares, in a hinged glass case mounted on the bulkhead next to the companionway. Standard equipment on a large yawl like this. I couldn’t tell if the pistol was loaded, but there was a box of flares next to it.…
Newton said, “Death at sea.”
“Where?”
“There’s no need for you to know. We will sail, the four of us. I will drop
you and Ms. McCone at a location where you will be unable to contact the authorities until Mr. Hamid and I are well under way.”
“Under way to where?” Joslyn pressed.
“…That’s my business.” Newton’s eyes still glittered with triumph, but now I saw uncertainty creep in, as if in his haste to stage a big show he hadn’t thought far enough beyond it.
Hamid seemed to sense it, too. He said, “This is Eric Sparling’s yawl. He’ll have the Coast Guard after us when he realizes it’s gone.”
“Have you always been stupid, or is this a recent occurrence? Do you think I would take her without Sparling’s permission? I do odd jobs for him; a recent one was to drive him and his wife to the airport to catch their flight for France, where they are spending a month’s vacation. He offered me the use of the yawl, gave me the keys.”
“But he didn’t mean for you to use it without the crew. You can’t possibly sail her alone.”
Hamid, damn him, was pushing too hard. Before Newton could reply, I asked, “What about your statement to the world? When will you make that?”
“Once we’re under way I’ll reveal the reason for the bombings—and Mr. Hamid’s punishment.”
“How?”
“My laptop.” He nodded toward the forward cabin.
“Won’t you need a phone connection to do that?”
Newton suddenly looked stricken. He hadn’t thought it through. He shook his head as if to deny the lapse in planning.
Hamid took advantage of his preoccupation and stepped toward him.
Newton jerked the gun up, jabbed it at him. His hand was far from steady. Hamid froze, then backed off.
Newton glanced at the handcuff dangling from Hamid’s wrist, then seemed to think better about moving any closer. “If you make another move toward me,” he told him, “I’ll shoot you dead. You,” he added to me, “get back there and cuff him to—”
But I’d found the right button to push. “You won’t kill him,” I said quickly. “Not with a gun, not face-to-face.”
“No? I killed three people prior to yesterday. Who knows what the final body count at the consulate will be?”
“There’s a difference. You weren’t there when they died.
You didn’t see your victims go up in flames. Smell their flesh burn, hear—”
“Stop that!” The gun’s muzzle wobbled toward me.
“You won’t shoot me, either,” I said gently—and with more conviction than I felt. “It would hurt too much—the way you hurt for Chloe. That’s what started all this, her pain—”
“She’s right,” Hamid interrupted. “You’re a fucking coward.”
“Shut up!” I snapped at him.
He ignored me, seeming to take strength from my words to Newton. A rising tide of anger and hatred had submerged his fear; I could see sudden fiery resolve in his eyes.
“You think you’re a man, Fig? You’re nothing. All this nonsense over a cheap cockteaser who got exactly what she asked for! You’re nothing but a robot. You talk through a computer. You kill by remote control.”
“Hamid! Shut up!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you fuck long-distance, too— if you can get it up at all.” He took another step forward.
“Hamid, goddamn it—”
But there was nothing I could say or do to stop him now. His rage had made him recklessly self-assured. I watched his muscles tense, knew he was going to rush Newton the instant before he acted. All I could do was set myself to react.
Hamid lunged, pawing at the gun. He missed it, and before he crashed into Newton, the muzzle flashed and the bullet tore somewhere into Hamid’s upper body.
I was moving by then, deafened by the boom reverberating through the cabin. Not forward; Newton still had control of the gun, and there was too little room to try to disarm him. Backward, two quick steps, so I could reach out and smash the lightbulb by the companionway. Just as Newton staggered clear of Hamid’s toppling body, the cabin plunged into darkness.
I fumbled along the bulkhead for the case containing the Very pistol, blood flowing from a gash in my hand. Behind me, sounds filled the gray-black: the heaving, bubbling gasps of a dying man; frantic grunts from Newton; Adah’s accelerated breathing. I found the case, yanked on the knob. It wouldn’t open. Oh, God, not locked! I tugged harder—and this time the door squeaked open.
The pistol, where was—
There! I grabbed it. Felt for the box of flares, took it, too, and then scrambled up the steps to the afterdeck. I had to take the chance Newton would come up there after me. If I was forced to fire the pistol, I didn’t dare do it in the close confines of the cabin because of the risk to Adah.
On my knees I slid across the mist-slick teak, digging inside the box. One cartridge. One chance. I jerked it out as I reached the port rail and crouched there, panting, fumbling now to break the pistol open so I could load it.
Sounds boiled up from below. If he stayed down there with Adah, tried to use her as a hostage…
I jammed the flare into the pistol. Held it ready.
Newton’s head appeared in the companionway. Then the rest of him, alone, as he quickly climbed up. His breath was ragged, his eyes wild. The gun still trembled in his hand.
“Newton! Put the weapon down!”
For an instant he froze. Then he swiveled both his head and the gun toward the sound of my voice, trying to locate me in the thick mist.
“I mean it, Newton! Put the gun down! Don’t make me shoot—”
He saw me before my last word was out. He was too far gone to listen.
He fired.
Once, twice—wild shots, but the second came close.
I heaved the flare box at the gun. It bounced off his arm. The next shot came closer.
How many did he have left? I didn’t know, couldn’t take any more chances. No choice, dammit, he’d left me no choice—
I braced myself and pulled the Very’s trigger.
The flare hit him square in the chest, drove him backward to the starboard railing. Ignited clothing and flesh. In an instant he turned into a human torch.
You didn’t see your victims go up in flames. Smell their flesh burn—
Sickened, I watched as his back struck the railing, just above the hips. It jackknifed him up and over. He didn’t make a sound—not a sound. When he splashed into the water I heard the hiss and saw the steam rise. The flames died, but the stench lingered in the cold morning air.
I threw the pistol down and doubled over.
Thirty-one
I was on my back deck trying to keep my mind off Langley Newton by fashioning a new tail out of some old silk scarves for W. C. Fields when Joslyn arrived on Tuesday afternoon. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, her face strained, and there was a tentativeness to her normally jaunty step. It would be a while, I thought, before she recovered from her ordeal.
“Cat got him, huh?” She motioned at the silk parrot.
“Right.”
“Which one?”
“So far neither is copping to it.”
“Those repairs aren’t gonna last five minutes around the beasts.”
“I know. I’m taking him up to Bootlegger’s Cove, where neither of them can ever lay filthy claw on him again.”
Adah dropped a key on the table next to me.
“What’s that?”
“Your spare. When you didn’t answer the door, I used it. I’m giving it back now.”
“Don’t,” I told her. “You never know when you might need it.”
Our eyes met and after a moment she nodded and pocketed it. “Thanks.” Then she set a paper sack on the table and pulled out a bottle of wine. “For you. Deer Hill ninety-three Chardonnay. I had to visit six wine shops before I found it.”
I noticed that the bottle was chilled. “Why don’t you go inside and get the corkscrew and a couple of glasses?”
“Thought you were saving it for your fortieth.”
“What’s a birthday, compared to us b
oth surviving the other morning?”
She grimaced. “Amen to that.”
When she came back I took the corkscrew from her and used up some time opening the bottle. Joslyn was here to deliver news; I suspected it was negative and didn’t really want to hear. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like shit, but I’ll mend.” She took the glass I offered and tasted. “Good stuff.” Then she toed off her athletic shoes and headed for the lounge chair. “I tell you, McCone, I am never going to go through anybody’s trash again, no matter how fascinating it might be. There’s nothing like getting waylaid by a maniac and spending Memorial Day weekend trussed up in a moldy little room in his moldier little bungalow. Not to mention having Barbara and Rupert on my back for upsetting them.”
Her mention of Langley Newton made me sick all over again.
Adah peered keenly at my face. “Just glad I was below deck and didn’t see it. It’s gonna take you a lot of time to get over that. Some ways, you never will.”
“I know. Did he…say anything to you?”
“You mean about the woman? Not really. He was a very withdrawn guy, McCone. He just didn’t connect with other people, especially at the end—even though he had every means of connecting at his disposal. Computer, cellular phones, fax, tape recorder, you name it. I did pick up on one thing, though: he never had a relationship with her.”
“Oh?” It didn’t surprise me.
“Nope. You know what the task force found at his bungalow? An album of pictures, probably taken by him at some party at Das Glücksspiel. Love was in every one, posing with staff and customers. It’s where the one of her and Lateef that he planted in the apartment came from. There wasn’t a single picture of them together, though; too shy to ask, I guess.”
“And yet she touched him in a way nobody else ever had, just by being nice and going to bat with the D.A. for him. That’s why all this happened.” I tried to imagine how it must be to live in an emotional void, distanced from one’s fellow creatures. It wasn’t difficult, since I’d had some experience along those lines myself. But to imagine having the one person who made the void bearable violently torn away…
A Wild and Lonely Place Page 31
