Crouching next to the washer and dryer, Molly took off her shoes and socks. It made her pants too long, and she rolled the cuffs up over her calves. Then she straightened and took out the gun.
She'd never fired it at anyone. She was a good shot on the range.
She opened the laundry room door. It was dimmer in the rest of the cellar. The cellar stairs ran up from the front, the oil burner to the right. She could see the electrical board on the wall to her left.
Barefooted and silent she went across the cellar and up the stairs.
Policy was never to cock the piece until you were going to shoot.
Standing on the top cellar stair, struggling to take in enough oxygen to keep up with her heart rate, Molly looked at the service pistol for a moment and then carefully pulled the hammer back. Fuck policy! She put her hand on the knob and listened again. She heard the footsteps get closer, moving slowly. Then they went past the door and faded into another room. Molly opened the door and stepped through in a crouch, the pistol aimed in the direction of the footsteps.
Bright. She was in a front hall. There were glass lights on either side of the front door, and sunshine streamed through the glass.
Dust moats danced in the light. She saw no one. She stayed where she was frozen in her crouch, holding the gun with both hands, her finger on the trigger. Not policy either. Then she heard movement in the next room. She moved toward it silently, almost without volition, feeling nothing now, not even fear, her concentration so focused ahead of her that nothing else registered. In the living room, looking out the window, was a well-built blond woman in a black sweatsuit and white sneakers, carrying a black shoulder bag. Molly took two soundless barefoot steps into the room, and the woman became aware of her. She half turned, fumbling at her shoulder bag.
Molly said, "Freeze. Police." She stepped forward and got a handful of the woman's hair and pressed the muzzle of her service pistol into the woman's neck and slammed her against the wall face first.
"Don't move a fucking muscle," Molly said.
*.
She hated how choked her voice sounded. The woman stayed where Molly had put her.
"What's your name?" Molly said.
Faye.
"Okay, Faye. Let the purse slide off your shoulder."
Faye did as Molly told her and the purse fell to the floor. With her left foot Molly kicked it away.
"Now lace your hands behind your head," Molly said.
She moved the gun back enough so the woman could move her hands up. When the woman's fingers were laced, Molly got a good grip on the interlaced little fingers. Then she holstered her weapon, still cocked, and took her handcuffs off her belt and handcuffed Faye's hands behind her. Then she stepped away, took her service pistol out of the holster again. She didn't lower the hammer. She didn't know if Faye was alone.
"Where's Abby, Faye?" Molly said.
With her face still pressed against the wall, Faye answered, "Upstairs."
"She all right?" Molly said.
"Yes."
"Let's you and me go take a look, Faye. You first."
They went slowly up the stairs to where Abby was handcuffed to the bed. There were tears, Molly noticed, running down Faye's face.
SIXTY-FIVE.
Staying close to the edge of the road, unlit by streetlights and undisturbed by traffic, Jesse felt as alone as he had ever felt. More alone even than the day after Jenn moved out. It was an alone of silence where there should have been sound and emptiness where there should have been activity. His jacket was warm enough for the sharp fall night. He was comfortable, and if anything he was invigorated by the slow swim ashore. Had he been walking alone at night under the thin crescent moon for other purposes, he would have felt buoyant. He didn't know where everyone was. Hiding in their homes, he surmised. He didn't know what had happened on the island. Robbery, he surmised. But whatever had gone down before he got there, the silence and emptiness excited him. He was full of energy, and his legs felt loose and strong as he walked toward the ocean side of the island where the restaurant was.
He heard the three shots before he could see the restaurant. He crouched beyond some trees and listened. Nothing. Just the silence that followed the shots. He moved forward again slowly. The smell of the leaf mold under his feet was strong and mixed with the salt smell of the ocean. He could hear the water now, moving against the shore, and then he could see the restaurant in the dim light of the slim moon. There was no movement outside. The dim flicker of candle light showed through the windows. Near the back of the restaurant, there were no windows. Jesse dropped to his hands and knees and crawled carefully, staying in the shadows, toward the Dumpster. When he reached it, he squatted on his heels behind the Dumpster and looked. There were two shapes on the ground a few feet from him. He slid along on his belly now and reached the shapes. Two men. He felt them carefully. It was too dark in the shadows to see much. One with his throat cut. One shot more than once. That must have been the three shots. Nearby on the ground were two shotguns. Jesse felt in their pockets. Both men were carrying extra shotgun shells.
Okay, Jesse thought, two less bad guys. More money for the ones that are left. Neither one is Macklin. Neither one looks like the Indian.
I don't know the deal. I don't know who did the shooting, but now I know who got shot. I think they've got hostages. I don't know how many. I don't know how many bad guys there are. I can't go charging in there. I don't even know where exactly they are. Maybe they're not in there.
Jesse scanned the shoreline in front of the restaurant and then the dark movement of the ocean. Close to shore, he thought he could make out the darker bulk of a boat. He looked hard and it blurred. He looked away and then let his eyes drift back, looking at it from an angle. The dark bulk was there.
Okay, now I know how they plan to get off. Doesn't do me much good. I cant do anything about it until I shake the hostages loose. Or even know who they've got or how many.
There was nothing to do at the moment, Jesse realized, but what he was doing. Stay here in the shadows and watch the candles glimmer in the windows and await developments. He thought about Marcy and how afraid she must be. He wondered how she was handling it. He was scared himself, he knew, but he was used to it. He'd been scared before, and he was able to put it away in one corner of himself and proceed as if the rest of him were not scared.
Marcy had no experience with this kind of scared.
Inside the restaurant, Macklin drank some of his martini and smiled at Marcy.
"Okay, Marce," he said.
"Let's get organized."
"Meaning?" Marcy said.
"Meaning you and the other ladies each take a duffel bag and carry it out to the boat."
"Through the water?" Marcy said.
"Yep, it'll only be about three-and-a-half, four feet deep. You hand the stuff up and then climb in the boat."
"You're going to take us?"
"A little farther," Macklin said.
"We'll let you go next stop."
Patty began to cry.
"I can't go. I have to go home," she said.
"Got to do what you got to do," Macklin said.
"Get 'em started, Crow."
Crow nodded and gestured at the women. All of them were terrified to go. But they were more terrified of Crow. Each took a duffel bag of pillage and started toward the water, walking awkwardly in their high-heeled shoes. Crow stood at the water's edge watching them. Freddie Costa held his boat in as close as he could. Macklin stood just outside the restaurant door, sipping the last of his drink. Waist deep in the water Judy slipped and fell and dropped her bag. Both woman and bag went under water. Crow went in and caught the bag as it started to sink and reached in with his other hand and yanked Judy up right. He put the wet duffel bag back on her shoulder and shoved her toward the boat. In deeper water, Pam floundered and Crow salvaged her. Crow and the women reached the boat. Crow went up over the side of the boat as if he were on springs. The women hand
ed in their bags and then went into the boat as Crow, one at a time, pulled them up by the wrists and over the railing.
Crouched in the shadows Jesse realized that the hostages were going. I can't let them go. It was less a thought than a feeling, an impulse, really, that seemed to originate in his solar plexus. If I'm going to do it, I have to do it now. The Indian was on the boat. Macklin was alone on shore. If he could take him out quietly... With his gun out, he ran silently from the shadows and along the side of the restaurant. He had to compromise silence and speed. If Crow looked in and saw him... The compromise failed. Macklin heard him, or sensed him, and spun toward him with his hand moving toward his gun.
"Freeze!" Jesse said, as hard as he could say it softly.
Macklin stopped and peered at him in the insufficient light.
"Goddamn," Macklin said.
"It's you."
"Hands behind your head," Jesse said softly.
"Fingers locked.
Move."
Macklin grinned at him.
"It would have been a good move if you could have taken me out without a sound," Macklin said.
"But now you're fucked."
Jesse knew Macklin was right. He held the gun steady on the middle of Macklin's mass.
"Maybe," Jesse said.
"But I've got you, you son of a bitch."
"Or have I got you?" Macklin said, and raised his voice.
"Crow," he yelled.
"The police chief's here."
From the boat Crow said, "Yeah?"
Crow could only dimly make out the two figures in front of the restaurant.
"Shoot a hostage," Macklin said.
"Get his attention."
"I hear a shot," Jesse yelled, "and Macklin dies."
"Do it," Macklin shouted.
On the boat, Crow said quietly to the women, "Climb over the side and wade ashore."
"What are you doing?" Costa said.
"I don't hide behind women," Crow said.
"But they're our passport out of here," Costa said.
"They're Jimmy's passport."
"Get off the boat," Crow said.
The women scrambled over the side. Checkmated in front of the restaurant, Macklin and Jesse tried to see what was happening on the boat.
"Crow?" Macklin yelled.
On the boat, Marcy was the last woman over the side. As she hit the water, she heard Crow say to Costa, "Okay, crank it."
"What about Jimmy?"
"Jimmy's on his own. Get this thing out of here."
The big engines, which had been idling, roared to full throttle as the boat heeled away from the shore and headed for the open sea. The women stumbled and flailed and half swam in toward the shore. Neither Jesse nor Macklin moved out of the frozen tableau they formed in front of the restaurant door.
"That fucking Crow," Macklin said, staring out at the dark ocean.
"So," Jesse said, "I've got you."
Macklin looked back at Jesse.
"You might," Macklin said.
"It looks like you might."
"Hands behind your head," Jesse said again, no longer speaking softly.
Marcy was the strongest of the women. She reached shore first and stood in the knee-deep surf helping the others ashore. Agnes Till was the last one. Except for Marcy, the women collapsed onto the rocky beach above the water line. When she got Agnes ashore, she turned and looked at the dark forms in front of the restaurant.
"Jesse?" she said.
"I'm here," he said.
"Get on the ground and stay there until I tell you."
In front of the restaurant, Macklin began to back slowly away from Jesse.
"You know I fucked her?" Macklin said.
"That's your business," Jesse said, "and hers."
"Goddamned if Faye wasn't right," Macklin said.
He backed up a little more.
"Stand where you are," Jesse said.
"I don't mind shooting you."
Macklin stopped.
"You could at least make it sort of a sporting thing," Macklin said.
"I'm not a sporting guy," Jesse said.
"You holster your piece," Macklin said.
"We see who can draw and shoot quicker. Women can watch."
"Nope."
"Okay, just lower your piece. See if I can pull and shoot fast enough."
"Nope."
"You scared to play?"
"I don't need to play," Jesse said.
"That's all there is," Macklin said.
"Take a chance, Jesse. See what you got."
Jesse shrugged. , "I won't tell you again," Jesse said.
"Hands behind your head."
"I done time," Macklin said.
"I ain't doing more."
"Your choice," Jesse said.
Macklin's hand dropped to his holster, and Jesse put two rounds into Macklin's chest.
Macklin went down slowly as if the strength were draining away in stages. Jesse went over and took the half-drawn gun from Macklin's hand and tossed it away. Macklin's breath was irregular and growing more so. He swallowed repeatedly. Jesse knelt beside him. Macklin muttered something that Jesse could not hear. Jesse bent closer.
"Faye," Macklin said.
"I want Faye."
Jesse was aware of the women standing in a circle around him.
Despite what he'd told them, they had walked silently up behind him and now stood staring down at the men. The smell of gunpowder still hung on the salt air.
Jesse felt the big artery in Macklin's neck. There was still a pulse, and then there wasn't.
SIXTY-SIX.
Before she got into the big Coast Guard helicopter, Marcy Campbell put her arms around Jesse and held on to him as if there were a windstorm and he was a tree. Then she left him and got into the helicopter with the other women. They rose straight up and planed sideways and clattered over Paradise Harbor and landed on the high school football field, entering into an aurora of television lights and flashbulbs.
That was thirty-six hours ago and now having told everything she knew to Suitcase Simpson and the good-looking State Police SWAT team person, having been examined by a doctor, having showered and slept nearly eighteen hours, and showered again, and had some coffee, and orange juice, and eaten two soft boiled eggs and four slices of whole wheat toast with a butter substitute spray, she was waiting without much enthusiasm to do something she knew she had to do, without exactly understanding why she had to do it. She was sitting in a coffee shop in Government Center waiting to have lunch with Jenn Stone.
Marcy recognized her when she entered. She had made it a point to watch Jenn do the weather on Channel 3, and, while the forecast was laughable, she was as good-looking as Marcy had assumed. Several people recognized her as she came in, but if Jenn noticed she didn't let it show.
Marcy raised a hand as Jenn looked around the room, and Jenn saw her and came to the table.
"Hello," she said and put her hand out, "I'm Jenn."
"Marcy Campbell."
Jenn's grip was firm. Her body bespoke a personal trainer. Her hair was thick and intelligently cut. Her makeup was flawless. Her jewelry was quiet and expensive. The casual comfortable look of her clothes, Marcy knew, had cost her a lot of money. Jenn sat down opposite her, and Marcy knew she had taken the same inventory.
And Marcy realized suddenly that Jenn looked a little like her.
Younger. Probably better-looking, but Marcy could see that there was a resemblance. Jenn picked up the menu, a single mimeographed sheet of white paper.
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