This is nuts!” Bull’s-Eye spat out the words as he and Highbridge huddled behind the barn, driving rain hitting them from every direction. “We’re getting soaked. When it gets light, what are we going to do? Even if it’s stopped raining, we’re gonna look like a couple of drowned rats. There’s no way we’ll be able to walk around in these Santa suits.”
Highbridge longed for his Greenwich estate with the wonderful bubbling Jacuzzi in the master bathroom and its view of Long Island Sound. I had so much family money I didn’t even need to cheat investors, he thought. But it had been so much fun. Now, as he sat miserable and wet, wearing a scratchy Santa suit, he realized he should have gone into therapy and worked out his criminal instincts. And all the money he had wasted on his gold-digging ex-girlfriend who was now schussing down the slopes of Aspen with someone else. If he didn’t get to Fishbowl Island there was one thing he could count on—she’d never qualify for a cruise like this by visiting him in the clink. The thought of trading his Armani wardrobe for an orange jumpsuit riddled him with even more anxiety, if that was possible.
“Eric’s got to be looking for us,” Highbridge said. “It’s his neck, too, if we’re found.”
Suddenly the blades of a windmill on the ninth hole, which had been spinning wildly, came loose and went flying through the air. They landed inches from their sandaled feet.