THIRTY-FOUR

Abby was naked except for the short terry-cloth robe. Everything she owned on the island was now either cinders or burning. The remnants of the small sports car, its fuel tank blazing, was a burned-out hulk in the carport.

On the hill, silhouetted in the headlights of a vehicle, Jack stood looking at the devastation. At this moment the only advantage that Abby possessed was the fact that he thought she was dead.

She lay huddled in the darkness under the tamarind tree, waves crashing on the beach behind her. The white water lapping at the shore took on a fluorescent quality in the dark crescent shape of the cove. It was a rising tide and the foam washed up on the sand just a few yards from her feet. In the distance, she could see the indistinct outline of dark cliffs at the point near the Buccaneer. Abby could hear the loud music from the bar, but the building was around the point. There was no way they could have seen the blast. It was more of a whoosh than an explosion. She doubted if they heard it.

She had no money, no clothes. Her purse with the debit card now lay in the burning ashes of the house. Jack had been thorough. His only mistake was one of timing. Charlie had saved her life. The last act of a dead man.

She wondered if Jack had used some kind of a clock or watch to set it off, or if he had detonated the explosion by remote control. This sent a shudder through Abby. The flash that singed her body seemed to come from the back side of the house toward the beach. She guessed he had wired the large propane tank near the kitchen. There was nothing left to indicate that the tank even existed. The police would think it was an accident.

When she looked back at the bluff, Jack was gone. She sank further into the shadows, wondering if he’d left, or was he searching? Maybe he had seen her running from the house. She looked for a path of escape. The only way out was the beach behind her.

She heard footsteps in the grass. Abby pressed herself against the trunk of the tree. When she peered between two branches he was standing less than fifty feet away. He had one arm extended out in front of his face to ward off the heat. Still, Abby could see every crease and shadow, the face that launched a million books. He edged around the flaming ruins closer to where she was hiding, then stepped on something. He looked down, stooped, and picked it up.

Abby couldn’t tell what it was.

She looked at the road. Someone had to see or hear the blast. Even so it would take time before the authorities responded. They were miles from Christiansted and the nearest fire station. There was no one staying in the large estate house at the end of the road, and the other small houses were vacation spots mostly empty this time of year. The Buccaneer might send security, but by then, if Jack found her, it would be too late. For all intents the house on Shoy Beach Road was the perfect place for an accident, and Jack had picked it.

He turned and looked toward the water. Abby clung to the base of the tree, motionless and perspiring. He was holding something in his hand, a piece of singed paper that he’d picked up. He looked alternately between this and the beach. Suddenly Abby realized, it was the folder with her airline tickets. She had been holding them in her hand when she found Charlie’s body. With the shock of the explosion, the blast that threw her to the ground, she’d dropped them.

Like radar, Jack’s eyes scanned the distance to the beach, looking first in one direction and then the other. He looked back at the flames as if he couldn’t quite piece it together.

It was Abby’s last chance. Any second he would come up with a theory and start looking for footprints in the sand.

She slid down the incline to the water. The robe was now soaked as well as singed. She stripped it from her body, balled it up, and carried it under one arm so that Jack wouldn’t pick up on the white terry-cloth against the dark water and the night sky. She ran through knee-deep water and thanked God for the clouds that covered the moon.

The surf washed away her footprints, and the sound of the waves swallowed the noise from the patter of her feet. She ran more than a hundred yards down the beach, then darted up toward the marsh grass still carrying the robe under one arm. Abby huddled behind a bush long enough to don the robe and catch her breath. She was still stunned. It all seemed like a nightmare, as if at any moment she would rouse herself from a fitful sleep. But the pain, the cuts on her face and feet, and the blood on her cheek were real. She would not wake up from this dream and she knew it.

She climbed up onto the bank above the beach and looked back toward the burning house. She could see Jack’s car still parked with its headlights on. She ran across the broad expanse of grass toward the road. There was a small vacation house set back on its own driveway, deserted and locked. Abby huddled near the deck at the back of the house behind a lattice grillwork with a gate in it. The lattice concealed a storage area under the deck. She opened it and slipped inside. She hid there in the darkness for several minutes, listening for sounds, trying to catch her breath and stop her heart from pounding.

The space under the deck was cluttered with cast-off lawn furniture, and children’s toys, and infested with spiderwebs. Abby hated spiders.

There were rubber rafts and paddles, and a small canoe. Inside the canoe she found a pair of water shoes. She shook these out to make sure there was nothing making a home inside. They weren’t much. Abby managed to stretch them onto her feet. It was better than being barefoot.

Suddenly she heard sirens off in the distance, slow, lumbering, more than one. Fire trucks. Someone had called it in.

She crawled out from under the deck and ran as fast as her feet would carry her. It was a long way to the road, and it took her more than two minutes to get there, dodging around boulders and bushes, scrambling up a steep incline.

The first engine came barreling over a rise and nearly ran over her. She waved but on the dark dusty road they never saw her. Another pumper truck followed. Abby was left choking in its dust.

She started to run after them, then realized there were lights coming on behind her. She turned, this time in the center of the road, and waved one arm while the other held the bathrobe closed around her body.

It was a police cruiser, a white sedan with a light bar flashing red and blue overhead and siren screaming. It came to a screeching stop and the driver tried to wave her out of the way. Abby refused to move, and instead launched herself at the hood of the vehicle, and then stepped around to the driver’s window.

He didn’t look much like a cop. He was heavyset and wore a faded black T-shirt soiled by sweat and a pair of black chinos. Around his chest was a black nylon shoulder holster with a chrome revolver the size of a bazooka.

“What’s you doin’, lady? You gonna git yourself killed. Get the hell outta da road.” He waved at her like some angry midwife.

Abby stammered for words, then finally found them. “Someone’s trying to kill me. Please help me.”

“What you been drinkin’, lady?”

“Listen to me. Someone fire-bombed my house.”

For the first time the driver looked at her as if she might be telling the truth.

Abby couldn’t see the man in the passenger seat, but he appeared to be better dressed, a sport coat and slacks. The passenger door opened and the other man got out. He was a tall, slender African-American, and he seemed to take a close look at Abby over the top of the vehicle when he stood.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

She had soot on her face and dried blood under one eye. Her hair was a tangled web of wet ringlets.

Abby didn’t answer him. It was the look in his eye that troubled her, as if the cop recognized her.

Sergeant Logano reached for a flashlight in the car and shined it in Abby’s eyes.

She shied away and held up a hand.

He reached back inside the vehicle and opened a large folder that lay on the seat next to the driver. As he did, a four-by-five photograph of Abby spilled out of the folder onto the floor of the car. In that instant, their eyes met over the top of the vehicle and Logano blinked.

Another pumper truck pulled up behind the squad car and Logano told his driver to pull over to the side of the road so that the fire truck could get by. For a fleeting instant he reverted to traffic cop directing the truck around the car on the narrow road. The car pulled over, the truck roared through, and when Logano looked back, Abby was gone.

She had no idea why the police would have her photograph, but she wasn’t waiting to find out. If they had her picture, it was for a reason. The police would never buy her story. She had no evidence that Jack blew up the house. It was her word against his, and there was a dead man in her closet.

In the passing dust and confusion of the truck, Abby lost herself in the brush and shadows at the side of the road. Then quickly she retreated from the road, putting distance between herself and the squad car. She could see the two cops with flashlights beating the brush and hear their voices. She listened to them talking for some time until the tall one in the sport coat pitched it in.

“Never mind. She can’t get far. Dressed like that she stands out like a sore thumb. Put out an APB. If we don’t get her tonight, they’ll pick her up in the morning.” They got back in the car and drove toward the ebbing glow that had been Abby’s house.

She watched as the taillights disappeared over a rise and then she moved, parallel to the road, as fast as she could. It took her several minutes to make it to the security gate at the Buccaneer. There were two men talking downstairs inside the stone tower.

Abby watched for some time and a third man joined them, part of the maintenance crew. They were gossiping about all the excitement, loud voices and animated gestures.

Abby shielded herself behind a couple of small utility vehicles on her side of the road and headed up the hill toward the main building. She didn’t go inside but stayed on the road, passed the parking lot at the rear and the second-story veranda where the bar and restaurant were located.

With all of the excitement, explosions and sirens, the band at the bar hadn’t missed a beat. She could hear the crowd clapping their hands and shouting to the hypnotic beat of steel drums and guitars.

Abby hustled down the road toward the sea and the bungalows on the beach. She kept a wary eye on the road, any sign of Jack returning, but it was dark, and except for the music on the knoll she was alone.

Toward the bottom of the hill was a paved parking lot with spaces marked in front of the rooms. Most of the rooms were dark. Abby knew some of these were vacant. Other tenants, she figured, were either out partying or asleep.

Jack’s room was the second from the end near the beach. She had no idea how she was going to get inside. All the room doors locked automatically and used punched card keys. She had one of Jack’s keys, but by now it was melted plastic in the ashes of her purse.

There was a small building across the parking lot from the bungalows set into the side of the hill and lights were on inside. It was some kind of a utility building. Abby had seen maids coming and going from this the day she and Jack checked in. A door was open on the side of the building and a light was on inside. She made her way to it and looked in.

There was a woman ironing what looked like uniforms. A large industrial dryer was tumbling sheets and pillow cases. The woman was listening to her own music being pumped into her ears by a headset from a CD player strapped to her waist. She had her back to Abby, who could have fired a cannon and not been heard.

Against the wall just inside the door were a set of lockers, maybe a dozen in all. These each had padlocks on them, except for one that was open. Abby watched from the open door as the woman finished ironing one of the uniforms, placed it on a hanger, and hung it on a bar against the far wall with others. She returned to the ironing board, took another from a hamper, and started again.

Abby looked down at her terry-cloth robe. It was burned and had blood on it in two places. By daylight she would be a walking neon sign saying “Arrest Me.” She had to find something to wear. She looked at the open locker, and the woman ironing, her rear end gyrating to the rhythm of the music in her ears.

Abby slipped through the door, across the concrete floor to the open locker. Inside were two maid’s uniforms, a pair of jeans, and a top. The jeans and top were too small. The pants would have been four inches too short. She grabbed one of the uniform dresses. It should have been mid-calf but went almost to her knees. She took it anyway. There were no shoes.

Abby looked back at the woman. She was wearing white running shoes. They wouldn’t have fit Abby in any event. She was stuck with the swimming shoes. The woman finished ironing half of the uniform and flipped it over on the board.

Abby saw a purse on the shelf of the locker. She grabbed it and looked inside. There was a wallet with two dollars in cash, some cigarettes and keys. She didn’t want to do it, but she took the money. If nothing else she could get change and make a collect call to Morgan. She was putting the purse back when she saw it, a card key, probably a master for maid service. It was sitting on the shelf under where the purse had been. She grabbed it and put it in the pocket of her robe, then moved quickly across the room and out the door.

In the shadows outside she changed, took the key from the pocket, and threw the robe in a trash bin. She still had no underwear, but the dress would draw less attention than the burned and bloodied robe.

Now she moved quickly across the parking lot to Jack’s room. The outside light was on over the door, but the bath room window was dark, and there was no car parked in front. She took a chance, held her breath, and used the key. She was inside in a matter of seconds, closed the door behind her, and stood quietly in the darkness. She listened for any sounds but could hear only the of the clock, its luminous dial visible on the dresser drawer in the bedroom.

The room was empty, but Jack’s suitcase, still packed from his trip, lay at the foot of the bed. She hesitated to turn on a light, but she needed to see. She flipped on the lamp at the bedside table and quickly moved to the hall that separated the bathroom from the sleeping area.

Here there was a closet with louvered folding doors. She opened one side. The ElSafe was mounted on a wooden platform on the floor.

Abby kneeled down on the floor and tried to remember the combination. Jack had asked her for her birthdate and she had lied to him. But she couldn’t remember what year she’d used. It was part of the combination he had punched in. She prayed that he hadn’t changed it. She did trial and error on the safe, punching in the month and day and then trying several different years. Finally she heard the hum of the motor and saw the word “Open” in red letters appear in the window on the door. She pulled the latch with her fingers and it opened.

There were a number of items inside, envelopes and papers, a set of car keys that must have belonged to Jack. Then she saw it in the back. The dark blue cover of a passport. She picked it up and opened it. It was Jack’s. She dropped it on the floor and frantically tore through the safe. Under a stack of papers on the bottom Abby saw another blue cover. She opened it and her pulse quickened. Inside was Abby’s picture. She breathed a sigh of relief. She picked up Jack’s off the floor and dropped them both into the large patch pocket of the uniform dress. Jack would have trouble following her off the island without a passport.

There was some loose cash inside. She grabbed it and counted: one hundred seventeen dollars. This joined the passports in her pocket. Then she found the second debit card with her name on it. She took that too, then closed the safe door and pushed the lock button. The motor hummed again.

Abby went into the bathroom but didn’t turn on the light. This would be seen from the parking lot outside. She washed the soot and blood off of her hands and face, found a brush on the sink and brushed her hair so that she at least looked human again.

Then she went back to the closet. She opened the other side and surveyed the hanging clothes for anything she might use. Jack’s pants and shirts were all far too big. She was better off in the maid’s dress. She would use the automatic teller machine in Christiansted for cash as soon as she got there, and in the morning she would hit one of the many shops in town for the clothes she needed. Then somehow she would get off the island as quickly as she could.

On a hook in the corner of the closet she saw the fanny pack, the one Jack used to carry the pistol. The flap was unzipped. She lifted it. The pack was empty. The gun was gone.

She went back out into the sleeping area to the dresser and rummaged through the drawers. There was nothing she could use. She found a white pair of sport socks and wondered if she could fit them on under the swim shoes. She dropped them into her pocket.

She had just finished and was closing the drawer when she heard tires moving slowly on the gravel out front and saw the glare of headlights as they streamed through the window of the bathroom. Abby dove for the light on the nightstand and turned it off just as she heard the motor die and the thunk of a car door being closed out front. An instant later there was the sound of a card key slipping into the lock of the door.

Abby dashed across the room in the dark toward the patio door, but it was too late. A shaft of light penetrated the room from outside and Jack came through the door.

Abby darted back, to the other side of the bed, scrambling on her hands and knees and lay on the floor. She lifted the bed covers. The mattress was on a platform. There was no place to hide underneath.

She lay stone still.

He came in and turned on the light next to the bed, then slumped onto the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned and Abby nearly screamed. She could hear his breathing, things being emptied from his pockets onto the nightstand on the other side. She prayed he would take a shower, comb his hair, anything to give her two seconds to get to the patio door.

He flipped a shoe onto the other side of the bed and it almost hit her. She held her breath for fear that he might try to retrieve it. He didn’t. The other one followed, and then his socks.

He got up off the bed and she could hear the bottoms of his feet making suction on the tile floor as he walked to the bathroom.

Abby got up and dashed to the door. There was a simple turn-key lock under the handle. She turned it gently to avoid making any sound, then looked back toward the bathroom.

It was then that she saw it. On the floor behind her was one of the passports. It must have slipped from her pocket when she was crawling across the floor.

Suddenly she heard the flush of the toilet, Jack coming back. She looked at the passport, and the shaft of light from the bathroom door, Jack’s shadow on the wall as he approached down the short hall.

Abby took the only option open. She stepped out onto the dark patio and eased the door closed. It was still moving when Jack turned the corner, but he didn’t see it. She could see him moving in the bedroom ten feet away and prayed he wouldn’t see the passport on the floor.

The urge to run was overwhelming, but she kept her head and checked the pocket of her dress, opened the single passport that remained and saw Jack’s picture. There was nothing she could do. She was trapped on the patio. She would run if he found it. Otherwise she would have to wait and hope that he would go back in the bathroom or leave. It was her only ticket off the island.

Fortunately the passport was out of Jack’s line of sight, around the corner of the bed. If he went there he would step on it, but there was no reason to go.

He picked up the phone and dialed. She heard him talk to the overseas operator, then wait on the line. He sat on the edge of the bed. He looked tired and worn. Killing people must be hard work, thought Abby. She couldn’t see a spot of blood on his clothes. He must have showered and changed after slaughtering Charlie. If she had his pistol, Abby thought she could have shot him at this moment as he sat on the bed.

“Jess. Jack here. Listen, I need your help.” Jack stood, turned his back, and lowered his voice. Abby couldn’t hear what he was saying now. They talked for several moments and all she could pick up was the hum of Jack’s voice without the words. Then he turned toward her.

“No, I think she’s still alive. I can’t be sure. I’m looking.”

He listened while Jess said something on the other end.

“No. No. Don’t give me any crap. I gotta nail Spencer. First I gotta find him. And I need help to find her before she gets off the island.”

Jess said something.

“Get out of it. I don’t care what you do, but get down here.”

Jess was now doing all the listening. “I’ll call and have a ticket waiting for you at the airport, at LAX. I’ll try for a flight tonight.” It was four hours earlier out on the coast.

Jess was arguing. He was probably getting ready to hump some starlet.

“Sleep on the goddamn plane,” said Jack. “You gotta hit the ground running when you get here.”

Jess said something.

“Good. Listen, I owe you. See you in the morning.” Jack hung up. He wandered aimlessly in the room for a moment as if he was thinking. Then he glanced down at his suitcase still unopened on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Abby looked at the passport. Jack would see it if he grabbed the suitcase. In a moment she would run. Her heart was pounding. They were planning to kill Spencer. If she couldn’t get off the island, she could at least call and warn him.

Halfway to the suitcase, Jack stopped as if he remembered something, thought for a second, turned, and headed for the bathroom. Like that he was gone. She could still see the shaft of light. The door to the bathroom was open, but she had to take the chance.

Quickly she slipped back in through the patio door, four steps across the room. Abby picked up the passport, turned, and in an instant was gone.

The door to Jack’s room clicked shut as it closed. He heard it and stepped out of the bathroom. Instantly he knew what it was. He ran to the patio, threw open the door. There was no one there. He looked at the two-foot stone wall leading to the patio next door and the sea of bushes beyond.