"Get down!" she screamed. "Meg, get down!" She resisted the frantic impulse to jam Verity's throttle wide open. The Class Act swung wide, motor roaring, white spume in its wake, and circled to ram them again. Quill eased the throttle forward, turned hard right, and slipped behind the buoy. Class Act took the buoy amidships with a thud. Corrigan reversed. The motor whined in protest, stuttered, and died.
Quill blinked, refocused, and scanned the shore. Less than a quarter mile, closer to an eighth. They could swim to safety if they had to.
There was one advantage to the wind, she thought grimly. The howl was so loud it must conceal the sound of their motor, and in the darkness they would be hard to see. She cast a swift look backwards. Class Act roared straight for them. Her lights disappeared, obscured by a huge wave. Quill turned the Verity's bow carefully toward the inlet. White spume sparkled in the top of the waves. She tried to recall everything she had ever known about surfing. "Catch it at the break," she muttered, "catch it..." She slammed full throttle. The Verity bucked, and her stem rose into the air. Quill pitched forward, caught herself, and the little boat slid forward, down the face of the wave.
They'd caught it. The wave would bring them in. She heard Class Act's motor behind them. The Verity shuddered. They'd been hit. The portside bulwark rose higher, higher, and Quill tumbled into the sea.
The water reached up and took her. She plunged down, down, the warmth of the ocean a momentary astonishment. She surfaced, gasping, and peered through the darkness for the boat. "Meg!" she shouted into the wind. "Meggieee!"
The clouds swept from the moon, and she caught a glimpse of Meg's face, tight, frightened, determined. Quill raised her arm and pushed forward. "Go on!" she shouted. A wave broke over her head and she went under. Her head hit something hard, unyielding. Light shattered.
And then it was dark.
"I'm fine," Quill said irritably. "Excuse me." She pushed the medic's hand from her wrist. The condominium living room was filled with policemen, medics, at least one FBI agent, and, Quill suspected, a few reporters, since the woman and two men in the kitchen were trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She was lying on the leather couch in her clothes, which were soaked. What she could see of the wood floor was a small disaster - puddles and mud splashed everywhere.
Jerry Fairchild stood behind the couch and looked down at her. His expression was hard to read. Meg perched on the armrest, smoking one of her rare cigarettes. She'd washed her face and changed into dry clothes. "You were lucky," she said. She stubbed the cigarette out. Her hand was trembling.
"If you're well enough," Jerry said, "I ought to throw you in jail."
"Fine. Go ahead. Bring on the gendarmes."
"She'll be fine," the medic said. She recognized him; it was the same slight fellow who'd ministered to Corrigan when he'd appeared to faint the evening before. "Little waterlogged, and that's a nasty bump on the head, but..." He flashed his penlight in her eyes one more time. "No dilation of the pupils, she claims she's not dizzy, and that bump on her head isn't a fracture."
His mild brown gaze rested on her, curious. "What's that scar on your shoulder from?"
Quill realized someone had removed her sweatshirt and that the T-shirt beneath was wet. "Bullet," she said proudly. "From another case." She grinned. She sat up. She was shaky. Oddly, she was exhilarated. The past twenty-five minutes had been a confusion of water, wind, and shouting. Predominate was the grizzled face of the fisherman in the Chris-Craft, who'd knocked Evan Taylor out with an oar and dragged her from the water.
Meg came and sat next to her on the couch. "What about some hot tea?"
Quill swallowed. Her nose and throat were dry and stinging. Her eyes were gritty. Somebody had turned the air conditioning either down or off, for which she was grateful. One of the French doors was partly open, and she heard the lash of wind and rain against the windows. The air was warm and damp.
"I'm going to take a hot shower, first, and get out of these clothes."
Meg reached out to help her up and she got to her feet. The room seemed remarkably steady, amazingly bright, after the pitching waves and the darkness.
"We'll wait," Jerry said.
"Wait?"
"If you're all that fine, we're taking you downtown, for a statement."
"Now?"
"Now. Cressida Houghton's going to have sixteen lawyers on my back when she learns her precious pair have been booked for attempted murder."
"Verger's Taylor's alive?" Quill said.
"He means you, stupid," Meg said affectionately. "Go on, get dressed."
"In a minute. Where's the old geez - I mean the old gentleman that pulled me out of the water? He saved my life, Meg."
Jerry rolled his lips back in what she took to be an attempt at a smile. They were stained brown. He hawked, pretended to spit, and gave a genuine smile at her astonished expression. "That was you?"
"But Jerry, I've seen that old guy out in the boat every afternoon since we've been here."
"That's Charlie Sinclair. Used to be one of the best defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard before he retired down here to fish. Didn't mind my borrowing his boat, but I had a hell of a time taking his tobacco."
"Borrowed his boat," Quill said. "Oh, my goodness. Luis!"
"It's not too bad," Meg said with a slightly guilty air. "I got it to the dock, anyway. But there's a couple of dings in the side from getting rammed, and the police have confiscated it as evidence, and I'm afraid we'll have to get him a new one."
"Oh, dear. And we swore to John that this would be a profitable trip. Well." She stood uncertainly and said to Jerry, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now get changed. I'll wait." He raised his voice slightly. "I'd like this room cleared, please, and that includes you, Monica from channel seven."
"Jer-ry," the woman in the kitchen protested.
"Beat it. I'll give you a statement down at the station. And be glad I'm not pulling you in like Miss Quilliam."
"Since you've blown my cover, could I just ask her a few questions?"
"No."
"Miss Quilliam, how does it feel to have solved what promises to be the crime of the century?"
"Wet," Quill said cheerfully. "I'll be back in a second."
"Out," said Jerry. "All of you."
Outside, the rain continued in fitful gusts. Quill's euphoria ebbed the closer they came to the Palm Beach County police station. It was situated on PGA Boulevard, across from the Gardens Mall, near the community college. Despite the proximity of these three facilities, the area was blessedly free of the sprawling, neon-lit buildings that seemed to characterize Florida. It baffled Quill that drugstores, grocery stores, and gas stations were placed higgedly-piggedly among golf communities with high stone gates and pot-bellied security guards. The zoning committees must have had unlimited access to rum punches. But the police station was neither tasteless nor intimidating - just a large concrete block building stuccoed over with the ubiquitous white paint and, of course, a red-tiled roof. The building housed the DMV, the tax bureau, and other county offices as well as the jail.
Quill and Meg sat in the back of Jerry's Chevrolet. There was a huge crowd of vans and cars crowded in the parking lot. and a large clutch of people at the door. Some of them carried umbrellas against the rain, but most stood there unfazed by the weather, pale faces dripping, hair lank. To her amazement, Quill saw a few hand-lettered signs:
FREE CRESSIDA'S BOYS! and WE LOVE EVAN.
"My lord." Meg gasped.
"Told you Miss Houghton knows all the tricks." Jerry parked in the FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY spot and shut off the ignition. "You two ready?"
The next few minutes reminded Quill of the session in the boat. Terrifying, chaotic, noisy, and wet. Hands plucked at her arms, her hair. Voices shouted in her ear. Microphones were thrust under her nose and the lights of video cameras shone in her eyes. She grabbed Jerry's raincoat with one hand and Meg's sweater with the other and they all ducked though the crowd.
Inside, they went through the metal detector at the entrance. The hallways were wide, the floors covered with a beige, rubberized tile. Quill noticed there was no odor of disinfectant or dust-just the scent of damp clothes. There was group of people clustered at the en- trance to the county judge's chambers. In the center of the group was a tall, graceful figure in immaculate beige.
Even the reporters kept a respectful distance. Cressida's silvery hair was gathered in a loose bun at her neck. In the strong light, she looked tired, beautiful, and fragile. Her eyes-pale blue, distant-fell on Quill and Meg. She nodded slightly in their direction. The reporters - two of whom Quill recognized as national anchors for evening news programs - turned as if they were one body. Jerry held up his hand in warning. Video cameras whirred, a few cameras flashed. Cressida bent her neck like a swan and said something in a sorrowful tone.
"Cressida's claim is," Jerry said sarcastically, "that you two older women were after the boys' fortune. That this whole kidnapping thing with Taylor was a set-up."
"You're kidding!" Quill said.
"Come in here." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a side door set unobtrusively midway down the hall. They entered what was apparently a small interrogation room. There were three metal chairs, a square wood table, and bars on the window in the wall.
"The Houghton family is going to try to twist this around to say that we're responsible for Verger Taylor's kidnapping?" Meg said. "Whew! That takes a lot of nerve."
"Takes a lot of money," said Jerry. "But it's not going to work."
"Not going to work?" Meg exploded. "Of course it's not going to work! It's a huge lie!"
"Doesn't mean the defense isn't going to be successful." He looked at them with deeply cynical eyes. "We've got the whole business on videotape, of course. From the drop and the newspapers spilling out to the Taylor kids ramming your boat. There's some great footage of Evan grabbing your hair, Quill, and trying to keep you underwater. Cressy and her lawyers are going to have a tough time defending that."
Meg grabbed Quill's hand and squeezed it hard. "I guess I missed that."
"There's also some good footage of Meg ramming Luis Mendoza's boat into the pier." Jerry laughed silently and shook his head.
"Hah," said Quill. "I don't want to hear another word about my driving."
"Okay," said Meg, uncharacteristically subdued. "There's got to be more evidence than the videotape, Jerry." Quill ran her fingers through her hair. It was still damp.
"There's the money itself. The twenty thousand dollars that was missing from Verger's office. Evan had it stored in an identical tote in the back of his closet. But..."
A tap on the door interrupted him. He frowned. The woman Quill had seen with him the night before - his partner, Quill guessed - came in and shut the door be- hind her. She gave Quill a brief, angry glance.
"I've already ticked them off about interfering with the investigation, Trish," Jerry said. "And you have to admit that without them, we wouldn't have a charge that would stick."
"We do now," Trish said. "Corrigan just confessed. He says he and Evan staged the break-in to look like a home invasion and shot Verger Taylor twice in the chest with a thirty-eight pistol.
"Where the hell's the body?" Jerry asked.
"That's just it, Jer. He claims they left the body there. Went back to their mother's at seven o'clock and waited for the Quilliams to join them for dinner. Corrigan says he has no idea what happened to Verger's body, and that the kidnapping came entirely from left field."
"What does Evan say?" Quill asked.
"He denies everything. Says his brother was coerced." Her lips twisted. "We've got the confession on tape, Jer. And goddammit, the kid's lawyer was right there. Protesting like anything, but the kid just went on blurting and blurting. We've got 'em. I think we've got 'em. Of course, the thing we all want to know now is...
Jerry grunted, then said, "Where the hell is Verger Taylor?"
-13-
The hammering on the front door finally stopped. Meg put her coffee down and said, "Remember that little dead raccoon we found in the woods when I was six?"
They'd drawn the blinds down over the French doors and all the windows in the condo. The reporters had arrived in force before the sun was up. Luis didn't get to work until eight. They were barricaded until he could arrive to drive them away.
Quill didn't have to think very hard. The dead raccoon had been Meg's first sight of death. "Yeah."
"All the black flies over it."
"It was October, Meg. I told you that flies are part of a grand plan to..."
"Those so-called journalists are just like' em. The black flies."
"More like Nazis on Krystallnacht," Quill grumbled. "We can't answer the phone, we can't go out, we can't even see what kind of weather's outside, and don't tell me to turn on the weather channel. I hate the weather channel."
"You can't hate a whole channel."
"Well, I do. And the whole state of Florida, as well."
"Hate the whole state of New York, instead," Meg advised. "That's where the snowstorm is that's delayed Myles and Doreen."
"That's what we need, Doreen and her mop. She'd take care of that bozo from the Inquirer in two seconds flat."
"Well, I'm going to make us a fabulous breakfast. You're just suffering from post-near death syndrome. All those endorphins were coursing through your system like mad and then, wham. Big letdown."
The phone had been ringing when they'd walked in the door at one o'clock that morning. Every time Quill plugged the phones back into the jacks, it started again. A flotilla of TV, radio, magazine, and newspaper reporters were pursuing Cressida Houghton's version of Verger Taylor's disappearance: that Meg and Quill, intruders from up North and spumed fortune hunters to boot, had decided to involve her innocent sons in a heinous crime committed by persons unknown. Quill caught about three minutes of the early-morning news and switched the television off.
It was now a little after seven. She'd talked to Myles twice, once last night and again this morning. At nine, she'd call Tiffany to beg off the rest of the week. They'd return the money. As soon as the Syracuse airport opened, they'd leave. Quill had never wanted to go home as much in her life.
The doorbell chimed softly. Quill gritted her teeth. Meg was making an omelet Suzette, with orange slices and Cointreau. Fresh scones were in the oven. She'd peeled and sliced sections of fresh grapefruit, which she'd filched from a tree outside the condo the day before.