During that time, during the night of Sunday, July fifteenth, Carolyn had disappeared.
Except for the weekends he spent with Carolyn on the Cape, Daniels was in the habit of leaving for New York early Monday morning. With luck, Daniels could be in Manhattan by ten a.m., having already done an hour’s work on the plane and another hour’s work in the limo during the drive from Westboro to Manhattan. It was in the airplane and the limo, Daniels often said, that he got the most work accomplished, made his best decisions.
But on Monday, July sixteenth, the day after Carolyn disappeared, Daniels hadn’t left Barnstable until almost noon. And after he’d read the letter from Jeff Weston, Daniels had done nothing but stare out the window.
And then, when they’d landed, there’d been the proposition: work Jeff Weston over, the rougher the better.
In Manhattan, the whole Daniels empire awaited the arrival of the king—while the king was finalizing the details of a common, ordinary, everyday mugging.
A mugging that had become murder.
At the thought, the image of Jeff Weston’s head lying in the pool of blood suddenly surfaced, like some obscene creature emerging from the depths of a stagnant, poisonous pool.
The same pool that might someday give up the body of Carolyn Estes.
Because, yes, Carolyn had died on Sunday night, the fifteenth of July. There’d been a fight, and Daniels had killed her. Jeff Weston had seen it happen, and he’d told Diane Cutler what he’d seen. They’d decided on blackmail, Diane the mastermind, Weston the front man, the muscle. But when Weston had died, Diane had run, all the way to California.
Diane, the time bomb. Ticking.
Someday, somewhere, Diane would talk. If the police listened—if Constable Joe Farnsworth found Carolyn’s body, the law would come for Preston Daniels.
On the first day, they’d come for Daniels.
On the second day, they’d come for him.
Meaning that they must help each other, must protect each other, he and Daniels. Partners in crime: it was an ancient expression, probably as old as history. And now he knew its true meaning. Now he knew that—
A car was coming slowly, hesitantly, toward him, as if the driver were looking for a parking place. Was the car—? Yes, it was the BMW. Diane’s car. Without a doubt, Diane’s car.
Diagonally across the street there was a parking place large enough for the BMW. Yes, she was slowing, coming to a stop, putting the car in reverse. The parking place was small, but she handled the car skillfully, as she always had. Only minutes, and she switched off the headlights, killed the engine. Cautiously, Kane slid low in the seat as he watched Diane get out of the BMW, lock the door, and begin walking toward Carley Hanks’s apartment building. On the second floor, Carley Hanks’s apartment was lighted. And, yes, soon after Diane entered the building, light patterns moved within the apartment.
Kane started the rental car’s engine and pulled into Noe Street. At the Clipper Street intersection he switched on the headlights. Heading for Market Street, where he’d turn right, toward downtown, he drove cautiously through the unfamiliar streets.
Tomorrow he would call Daniels, on the private line. What would Daniels instruct him to do, what orders would the great man give him?
What orders would Daniels give …
What orders would he obey?
What orders, soon, would
he
give?
A
THOUSAND FEET BELOW
, the jungle was rich, endless green, blossoming with blooms of billowing orange napalm streaked with black smoke, some of the bursts shaped like atom-bomb mushrooms. Then there was the explosion. He was engulfed by an oily, impenetrable black cloud. Flying with one hand, he opened his safety harness, tripped the door latch, kicked open the door. Smoke was choking him, blinding him, about to claim him. The Skymaster, with one of its engines in the rear, was a killer airplane to leave in the air. Alarms were warbling, shrieking over the engine’s roar.
Alarms?
Did the Skymaster have alarms for—
The telephone, on the nightstand beside the bed. Groping, blearily blinking, Kane reached for his wristwatch. Six-thirty.
Daniels. It had to be Daniels. In New York, the time was nine-thirty. Already, Daniels would have increased his net worth, made the standard multimillion-dollar deal, warming up for the day ahead.
“Hello.”
“Yes. Bruce. Have you found out anything?”
“Yes. Just last night. Late. I didn’t want to call you then.”
“Well?” Daniels demanded.
But they were talking through the hotel switchboard. Was it a risk?
“I—ah—did what I came to do. She’s—”
Quickly, the other man broke in: “Has there been any contact? Any conversation?”
“No. I didn’t think you wanted me to—”
“There’s been a—a new development. Just now. Just a half hour ago. That’s why I’m calling.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed now, Kane felt the sudden dryness of fear begin, deep in his throat. And, yes, he felt his bladder constricting—tighter, almost unbearably tighter. All night, he hadn’t urinated. And now this: the fear he could hear in Daniels’s voice. The fear that might match his own fear.
He realized that he was pressing hard on his genitals, something his mother had hated:
“Don’t do that, Bruce. Puleeze.”
“It’s—” Daniels hesitated, an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “It concerns our fat friend. The one who—who was asking you questions. He just called.”
Farnsworth. Constable Joe Farnsworth. Shrewd Joe Farnsworth.
“Where’d he call you? At the office?”
“Yes …” The single word was heavily laden.
“Jesus. What’s he want?”
“He was asking about”—now, furtively, Daniels’s voice thinned—“about that, ah, accident. Two weeks ago. The man.”
Jeff Weston. The death of Jeff Weston.
Now the urge to urinate was too much to bear. Had Preston Daniels ever been told to wait, while—
“Listen. I’ve got to take a piss.”
“But—”
“Sorry. It can’t be helped.” Without waiting for a reply he put the phone on the pillow, walked carefully to the bathroom, emptied his bladder. Never had he felt this much relief, afterward. He raised his shorts, quickly returned to the bed, picked up the phone. “Sorry. It just couldn’t wait.”
“It—it’s got to do with the—ah—Buick.”
On the Cape, Daniels kept four cars. Stalking Jeff Weston, he’d used the Buick, the least distinctive of the three cars. But someone had seen the car, recognized it.
Recognized the car—recognized him?
“Jesus. I don’t like that.”
There was no reply. But the silence was more meaningful than words.
“Has—” Kane hesitated, searching for the phrase. “Has our friend made any—any connections?”
“If he has, he didn’t say so. But I don’t think he’d say anything specific, not yet. Not even if he thought—” Stifled by the enormity of whatever Farnsworth might suspect, the rest of it was choked off, lost.
“Shall I come back there? Is that why you’re calling?”
“No. I mean, that’s not why I’m calling. I—I just wanted to update you. Warn you.”
“So what now? What about this San Francisco thing, the reason I’m here? Are you going to—”
“No. I was going out there. But now I—I don’t think it’d be wise. I wanted you to find her, and then I’d intended to come out there, to talk to her. Find out—” Once more, the words died. Then: “Find out how she fit into all this.”
Jeff Weston and Diane … Daniels had to learn how much they suspected, how much they knew. For the first time, Kane could hear the thin note of desperation in Daniels’s voice. Desperation, and—yes—guilt. Murderer’s guilt.
“You’ve got to know about Diane. I can see that.”
“But I can’t contact her. Not now.”
“I know …”
“That leaves you, Bruce.”
“Me …”
“You’re the only one who can do it. There’s no one else.”
“You’ve got to trust me, then. You don’t have any choice. You understand that, don’t you?”
No reply.
“Don’t you?”
“I—” For a moment, one final moment, Daniels plainly couldn’t bear to say it, pronounce the words that meant capitulation. Meaning that Kane must force the silence to continue. Until finally, in a low, resigned voice, Daniels said: “Yes, I understand that.”
“Good.” Another beat, another turn of the screw, one final twist. Then: “I’ll be in touch.” Without permission, he broke the connection.
T
HE MISTS WERE THICKENING
, swirling; concealing, then revealing. Was the figure ahead a man or a monster? Overhead, dark clouds crossed a pale crescent moon. The surf was the only sound, a distant muttering. Face turned away, arms slack, the monster was motionless. The sand surrounding him had turned to eddying slime, putrefied by decaying flesh. Why was he coming closer, even though he still stood motionless? Why was the distance between them closing? The monster’s shoulders were scaled, his hands were talons. Now his face was visible: amorphous and scabrous, pulsating, the flesh itself as alive as a Gorgon’s cluster of writhing worms, the eyes two red coals, the nostrils two pits, the mouth a shapeless, blood-dripping maw.
What did he intend for her? What was she meant to do? And what was the sound that suddenly suffused them, that high-pitched keening—
—the doorbell buzzer.
Someone at the door.
Carley, locked out?
The room was bright with morning light. Turning, she looked at her watch, on the table beside the couch. Almost nine-fifteen. Propped on one elbow, she felt her head begin to throb, felt the dull ache of recollection beginning. Yes, it was coming back: the cheap red wine and the Xanax. Today, she’d promised Carley, she would buy some good red wine, ten, fifteen dollars a bottle, a cupboard full. And groceries, too. And—
Again, the buzzer sounded.
Barefoot, wearing only panties, she stood up, waited, felt the room begin to steady. Slowly, carefully, she walked to the hallway door. With Carley gone, the door was unbolted. Latched and locked, but unbolted, a security no-no.
She put one eye to the peephole, saw a man’s head, full-face, as, with a sudden jangling shock, the buzzer sounded again.
Kane. Bruce Kane.
Bruce Kane?
In San Francisco?
Now he was looking directly at the peephole: directly into her eye. Had he seen the movement? Yes, backlit, he could see her: see motion, see light and dark, shifting.
“Diane? Is that you?”
Bruce Kane … She’d never liked him, never trusted him. Bruce Kane, a schoolyard bully grown up.
“What d’ you want?” It was all she could think of to say, a dumb question. One more dumb question; one long, bad joke. God, but her head ached.
“I want to talk to you. It won’t take long.”
Bruce Kane, with his flat, hard eyes and his scarred, street-fighter’s mouth and his bulging weightlifter’s biceps—and his hard, trim buns. The packaging was good, but the price would come high.
“Is my—is Daniels with you?”
“No. He’s in New York.”
Could she refuse to open the door? No. Somehow she couldn’t refuse.
“Just a minute. I was still sleeping. I’ve got to put something on.”
She saw him smile. His particular smile, without humor, without warmth. “Take your time.”
“I will.”
“D
’YOU WANT SOME COFFEE?”
she asked.
Kane shook his head. “No, I’ve already had three cups. Your—Daniels, he called at six-thirty, for God’s sake.” As he spoke, he sank into one of two director’s chairs. About to prop his feet on the battered, littered coffee table, a gesture of equality, of easy goodwill, he decided instead to cross his legs. Across the table, Diane was sitting in the nest of her sleeping bag, spread on the couch. Her running shoes and socks were on the floor in front of the couch. The socks looked dirty.
“Did he tell you to find me?” she was asking. “Is that what this is all about?”
“I had to come to San Francisco anyhow. As long as I was here, he wanted me to try and locate you.”
He saw her eyes sharpen skeptically, then harden. He’d forgotten how tough she could be—how smart, how shrewd. Instead of responding, she was simply waiting for him to go on, to explain. Advantage Diane.
“He wanted me to find you,” he said, “because he wants to know what you’re doing.”
Her mouth twisted, mocking a smile. “It’s summer. Vacation time. I’m taking a vacation.”
“Maybe you should’ve told your folks.”
“I
did
tell them. I guess they didn’t tell you.”
“What is it that they didn’t tell me?”
She shook her head, waved the question away. “Never mind.”
“Listen, Diane, you’ve got a lot of people worried. Do you know that?”
“Yeah, well, a lot of people have got me worried, too. Do
you
know
that?”
“I know that something’s bothering you. Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t think you came to help me, Bruce. I think my stepfather paid you to find me. Just like he pays you to fly him around the country. There’s no difference. He says jump, and you say how high.”
Letting silence work for him, the policeman’s trick, he stared at her until she began to shift uncomfortably. Yes, a teenager’s uncertainty was there, buried deep. Finally he said, “You’ve got it wrong, Diane. You’ve got it all wrong. That’s the way it used to be.”
Contemptuously, she made no response. Instead, sullenly, she stared past him, toward the big bay window that fronted on the street below.
“Now,” he said, “when he says jump, I ask where—and why. Then I make up my own mind.” He spoke softly, one confidant to another.
She snorted. “When did all this happen?”
He drew a long, slow breath. It was decision time, pick-up-the-chips time. He spoke very deliberately, very precisely: “It happened just about two weeks ago.”
She flinched. As the words registered, struck home, her teenager’s cool deserted her, leaving her staring at him warily. “You say—” She broke off. Then, cautiously: “You say two weeks?”