Wild Card

by Stuart Woods

  “I phoned her and asked how she had traveled uptown. She said she had taken the subway. I canceled dinner and hung up. Suddenly, I had three guys closing in on me. I started the car, drove it a couple of blocks, then got a cab, so I’m still in one piece.”

  “Apparently, your generosity was inadequate,” Stone said.

  “That, or they started putting pressure on her again. They had already done that after the fire. I guess she was more fragile than I thought, and she caved.”

  “Good moves covering yourself,” Stone said. “I wouldn’t go back for the car. Call the rental company and report it stolen. It’ll find its way home. I take it you used another name.”

  “Sure. I’m disappointed about the girl, though. She was nice. Under other circumstances, who knows?”

  “They’ll do that, but don’t stop trying. They’re worth it.”

  “Can you put up with me for a few more days?”

  “As long as you like.”

  “I’ll be invisible.” Bob left, and Stone went back to his mail.

  * * *

  • • •

  Stone had a sandwich at his desk, and around five, Jamie walked in with a fat manuscript under her arm. “I finished it,” she said. “The corrections were almost entirely technical.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I’ll get Joan to messenger it to Scott, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure.”

  She went into Joan’s office, but she was back a minute later, and they went up to his study for a drink.

  “What happens now?” Stone asked.

  “Scott and Jeremy will read it, then it will go through rigorous fact-checking. When that’s done, it will go to my publisher, and I’ll get a nice check.”

  “What are your plans while you’re waiting?”

  “Whatever you’d like them to be,” she replied.

  “I’m happiest when you’re around.”

  “I’ll stop by my place tomorrow and check out the mail, though all I ever get is bills and trash.”

  “Why don’t you get someone to do that for you?” Stone asked.

  “Do you think there’s still a problem?”

  “They’re still looking for Bob Cantor. They could be looking for you, too.”

  “I’ll get my secretary to pick it up and bring it here.”

  “No, have her take it to your office and go through it. She can messenger over here what you need to see. Or if you want to go to the office, Fred will drive you there and bring you back.”

  “I think I’ll do that,” she said. “I was hoping this would be over.”

  “So was I, but I don’t think it is. Have you got a pub date for your book?”

  “They’re going to rush it, so four weeks after they get the final manuscript.”

  “Good. You can work on your autobiography, and when the book comes out, it will be over. That’s my best guess, anyway. They’ll have nothing to gain once the book is in print.”

  “Jeremy thinks the Thomases will try for an injunction to stop publication.”

  “They won’t get it. In Britain, they probably would because they have stricter libel laws there. Anyway, their attempt to stop publication would be good publicity for the book.”

  “We’ll play it for all it’s worth.”

  “How are you feeling? Any jet lag?”

  “Just a little tired.”

  “The trick, flying west, is to stay up as long as you can, then get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Then you’ll have to think of something to keep me awake,” she said.

  “I’ll think about nothing else, until bedtime,” he replied.

  11

  Sherry sat at her new desk, staring at the computer screen, at a letter Rance Damien had dictated. She was shaken. She had been caught twice, once by Damien and then by Van, or whatever his name was. It crossed her mind that she had enjoyed being around Van more than Damien. Someone put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. She looked up to find Damien standing there, staring at her with that gaze his facial scarring had given him.

  “What’s wrong, Sherry?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Damien. I guess I was just daydreaming.”

  “You’re still rattled by what happened on Monday night, aren’t you?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Why don’t you take some time off, recharge the batteries?”

  “Well,” she replied, “I’ve got some vacation time coming. Would you mind if I take a week, starting tomorrow?”

  “Where would you like to go?” Damien asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t given it any thought yet.”

  “Do you want to be with a lot of people or just alone?”

  “Just alone, I think.”

  “We have a place up on the coast of Maine, near Rockland. It’s a comfortable house with some staff, with a beautiful beach and views of Penobscot Bay. Why don’t you be our guest there, for as long as you like, then let me know when you’re ready to come back to work?”

  “That sounds lovely, Mr. Damien. It’s very kind of you to offer it. Are you sure I won’t be interfering with someone else’s vacation?”

  “You’ll be the only person there, except for the housekeeper and the handyman—and the housekeeper is a good cook. You won’t even have to buy groceries.”

  “All right, I’d love to. How should I travel? Plane or car?”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “No, I’d have to rent one.”

  “I’ll have a company plane fly you to Rockland, and someone will meet you there. My secretary will have a car pick you up tomorrow and take you to Teterboro.”

  “What’s the weather like in Maine this time of year?”

  “Sunny, in the seventies right now. You’ll need a sweater or jacket for the evenings, which turn cool.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Damien. This is very kind of you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The following morning, at Teterboro, she was escorted to a small jet. An hour later, they were setting down at Rockland. As they taxied to the ramp, she saw a large man standing next to a green van with something painted on the side that turned out to be: GREEN HILL COTTAGE.

  The man took her luggage and stowed it in the van, then helped her inside.

  “My name is Hurd Parker,” the man said to her. “You’re Miss Spector?”

  “Sherry will do.”

  The man nodded and drove her through Camden, then Rockland, and out the other side before turning toward the water. The cottage was larger than she had expected, and when she was inside she was surprised at how large the rooms were.

  Hurd introduced her to Heather, his wife, who was the housekeeper, and she was shown to a comfortable bedroom on the second floor, with a deck and a view of the bay.

  Sherry unpacked, then took a book down to a library off the living room and found a comfortable chair near the window. As the sun set, Hurd lit a fire for her, and Heather brought her dinner to the library and set it up on a small table.

  * * *

  • • •

  Two days later Sherry was getting cabin fever. She asked Hurd if she could borrow a car to see some of the area.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Guests aren’t allowed to drive our vehicles. It’s an insurance thing. I can give you a golf cart that will take you to the beach.”

  “Thank you, I’d like that.”

  Heather packed her a lunch, and she tossed that and her beach bag into the golf cart and followed Hurd’s directions to the sea. Once there, she was surprised by how deserted the area was, so she spread a blanket and removed her bathing suit top to get some sun without tan lines. She stretched out and soon dozed off.

  She was awakened by a noise she couldn’t identify, exactly. She turned over
on her stomach and had a look into the trees behind her. She saw movement and realized she was being watched, probably by Hurd. She put her top back on and tried to read for a while, then gave up and went back to the house.

  In her room she began to review her situation. She was alone hundreds of miles from New York, and she hadn’t even seen a telephone in the house. She got out her iPhone, but couldn’t get a signal. Rummaging in her bag, she found the throwaway cell phone that Van had given her, but she couldn’t get a signal on that, either. She got up and walked out onto her deck. She found that she could get a weak signal if she stood in a corner on the seaward side.

  She sat in a lounge chair for a while, then she walked back to the corner, took out the throwaway, and pressed the button that called Van’s number. No one answered, but she had been told to expect that. Instead, she heard only a beep.

  “Van,” she said hesitantly, “this is Sherry. I’m sorry about the other night. I was under a lot of pressure. I was sure they were after you, so I’m glad you didn’t show. I’m at a house in Maine, near Rockland, owned by the Thomases. It’s deserted, except for a handyman and a housekeeper, who seem to be watching me closely. I don’t have a car, and I’m starting to worry about what could happen to me here. I’m getting a very weak signal from one spot on a deck outside my room. Will you call me on this phone tomorrow morning at ten o’clock sharp? I’ll stand in this spot and wait for your call.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Bob Cantor got the message in the late afternoon and tried to call Sherry immediately, but the call wouldn’t go through. He made a mental note to try her at ten the following morning, then he went down to Stone’s office.

  “What’s up, Bob?”

  “I’ve heard from Sherry, the girl from H. Thomas. She left a message saying they’ve got her stashed at a house in Maine, near Rockland, and she’s nervous.” He explained about the cell signal.

  “Could this be another attempt to smoke you out?”

  “Smoke me out in Maine?”

  “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

  “I think she thinks she’s in trouble, and she doesn’t have a car.”

  “All right,” Stone said. “Here’s what you tell her.” He gave Bob detailed instructions for the girl.

  “I’ll tell her tomorrow morning at ten,” Bob said.

  “If, after talking to her, you think she’s in imminent danger, we’ll fly up to Rockland immediately and find her.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Bob said.

  12

  The following morning Sherry had breakfast in her room. Then, when Heather returned for the tray, she said that she wasn’t feeling well and needed to sleep some more. Approaching ten o’clock, she got up and took the throwaway to the deck.

  She had been waiting for a couple of minutes when the phone vibrated. “Van?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Bob replied. “Do you want to get out of there?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But you have no transportation?”

  “I have a golf cart available.”

  “Electric, or does it have an engine?”

  “Electric.”

  “All right, here’s what you do: you take the golf cart to somewhere out of sight of the house, where you can get a signal. Then you google a cab service and have yourself driven up the coast to Lincolnville, which is just a wide place in the road, but it has a ferry service that runs every hour or so to an island called Islesboro. When you get aboard the ferry, call a cab in the village of Dark Harbor, and have them meet the ferry. Tell the driver you want to go to the house next door to the yacht club. And when you get there, go to your left around the house, and you’ll find the caretaker’s cabin. His name is Seth Hotchkiss. He will let you into the house and give you a guest room. When you’re settled, call me. Have you got all that?”

  She repeated the instructions without error.

  “All right, now I’ll give you a plan B. If, for any reason, you can’t get to Lincolnville go to Camden—to Wayfarer Marina, on the north shore of the harbor. Look for a large motor yacht called Breeze, and ask for Captain Todd. He’ll know what to do. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, both plans A and B.”

  “Call me when you’re safe.”

  “Thank you, Van.”

  He hung up.

  Sherry got into her bathing suit, then packed her single rolling bag. She opened the door of her room and looked up and down the hallway, then walked quickly down the hall and found a door leading to the back stairs. She knew the golf cart was kept behind the house in a shed.

  She went back for her case and let herself out onto the stairway, then stopped and listened. She heard a sound like a lid being put on a pot, and she froze. Then she heard Hurd’s voice.

  “Where is she?”

  “Still in bed, said she wanted to sleep some more.”

  Hurd seemed to leave the kitchen because they stopped talking. Sherry picked up her bag, slung her pocketbook over her shoulder, and walked carefully down the stairs, staying near the wall to avoid squeaking steps. At the bottom, she opened the rear door and looked around. She thought she heard the van start up at the front of the house.

  She trotted to the shed, put her bag on the rear seat, then got into the golf cart. There was no key in the ignition. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself, then got out of the cart and began looking for the key. She heard the van drive away from the house.

  She made a complete circuit of the shed’s interior and found the key hanging on a nail behind the door. A moment later she switched on the cart, put it in gear, and eased out of the shed. She was at the corner of the house before she figured out that she was going toward the beach, not the road. She stopped, realizing that to get to the road she would have to drive past the kitchen windows.

  She wasn’t sure which way the van had gone, but she made a U-turn and drove slowly around the house, stopping at a corner to take a look out front. The van was nowhere in sight.

  She got back into the cart and drove, not too fast, toward the road to the main highway. Halfway there, she came to a hard stop. Ahead of her perhaps fifty yards, the van was parked at one side of the road. She heard the sound of a chain saw, then she saw Hurd come out of the woods and load some cut wood in the back of the van, then return to the woods.

  She started to move again, but then she saw something she needed beside the road. She got out, picked it up, and placed it on the seat beside her. The chain saw started again; this was her opportunity. Hurd was wearing ear protection, so he wouldn’t hear her. She floored the golf cart and was disappointed when the speedometer registered only fifteen miles an hour, apparently the cart’s top speed. She thought for a few seconds about stealing the van, then thought better of it. As she drew close to the other vehicle, she could still hear the chain saw. She couldn’t see Hurd, but as she passed the van he stepped into the roadway, holding an armload of wood.

  “Hey!” he yelled as she passed him, then he started to run after the cart. To her consternation, the cart began to slow down. She looked at the dashboard and saw the low-battery warning light flashing, then remembered that the cart had not been plugged into a charger in the shed.

  She looked into the rearview mirror and saw Hurd running and gaining on her. She stopped the cart and grabbed the rock she had picked up from the road. It was the size of a softball but heavier. She got out of the cart, drew back, and threw it at his head. She hoped it would connect because she didn’t have another one.

  The rock struck Hurd on the left side of his forehead, and he went down like a sack of beans, then lay still, blood trickling from his forehead. She picked up the rock and threw it into the woods, then moved her bag from the cart to the van, got it started, and drove on toward the highway.

  She wanted to separate herself from the van as soo
n as possible, so when a service station with a Subway sandwich shop attached came into sight, she pulled off the road, drove behind the building, and got her bag out. She googled taxi services, found one, and asked to be picked up at the Subway, destination Lincolnville.

  The taxi took fifteen minutes to arrive, and in her imagination she could see Hurd awakening, getting to his feet, and going back to the house to call the police. She got into the taxi. “Lincolnville Ferry, please,” she told the woman driving.

  As they were driving through Rockland, a police car passed them going the other way, followed by an ambulance. Sherry made a quick decision. “Take me to the harbor in Camden,” she said. “I forgot I have to pick up something there.”

  The driver drove into Camden, deposited her outside a row of shops, took her money, and pointed down an alley. “The harbor’s right down there,” she said.

  Sherry trotted down the alley, pulling her case behind her, then came to a dock. She stood, staring at a sign that read: WAYFARER MARINA. It was on the other side of the harbor. It began to rain.

  13

  Sherry stood there. She was afraid to retrace her steps and walk to the north side of the harbor, so she looked around for a boat. As if in answer to a prayer, a small boat with an awning came out of the mist and stopped. “Taxi?” the driver asked.

  She climbed aboard. “The Wayfarer Marina,” she said, pointing. “Over there.”

  “Five bucks,” the man said.

  Sherry took shelter as best she could, and raked the coming shore with her eyes. There were a number of motor yachts, but none named Breeze.

  The water taxi pulled up to the dock, and the driver set her bag ashore for her. She paid him, then looked around for a dockmaster. What she saw instead was a police car pulling into the parking area fifty yards away and a cop getting out of one side and Hurd out the other, sporting a bandage on his forehead and looking angry.

  She spotted a shed at one end of the marina and ran for that. A young man had taken shelter inside and was reading a Playboy. “Yes, ma’am?”