AHEAD, THE PANEL TRUCK was turning off the blacktop road and into a narrow, cypress-lined lane, no more than two tracks in the sand. Now the truck’s brake lights winked. The truck came to a stop, the lights went out, the engine died. Was Weston making yet another delivery, this late? How many cottages could there be in the lane? Three? Four? Kane drove slowly beyond the entrance to the lane, turned off onto the shoulder of the blacktop road, switched off the engine, let the Buick coast to a stop, lights out. As far as he could see in either direction, from one low rise to another, the blacktop road was deserted. Overhead, shreds of low-lying cloud cover crossed in front of a pale half-moon.
Wrapped in black friction tape, the pipe was on the car’s floor, on the passenger’s side. But first he must decide about the keys. Should he leave them in the ignition? It would save a few seconds, afterward. Yes, he would leave the keys. Here, now, during the next few minutes, the risk that the car would be stolen was nonexistent.
He’d unscrewed the Buick’s courtesy light, so when he swung the door open there was only darkness. He stooped, got the pipe, hefted it, held it in his hand while he carefully closed the door. Across the dunes, in the direction of the ocean, the lights of a few scattered cottages shone. To the east, toward the airport, a corporate jet was turning onto the ILS approach for Barnstable. The blacktop road was still deserted. He turned to face the row of cypress trees that defined the nearby lane—and concealed the panel truck with CAPE CLEANERS printed on either side. From the lane, he could hear voices. Could one voice be Jeff Weston’s?
At eight o’clock—more than an hour ago—driving at random, he’d first seen the panel truck at Tim’s Place, the bar on Route 28 frequented by locals. If he’d been ready, he could have done it then, in the dimly lit parking lot at Tim’s Place. It would have made sense: a barroom argument settled in the parking lot. Two men struggling silently, viciously, until one of them picked up a tire iron.
But he hadn’t been ready then, hadn’t prepared himself.
Slowly, his footfalls muted by the sand on the road’s shoulder, he drew closer to the lane—closer to the van. Now, once again, he heard voices, one of them a man’s. Weston’s. During the past two years, flying Daniels to the Cape, spending time at Carter’s Landing, at the house on Sycamore that Daniels kept for his hired help, he’d occasionally seen Weston at the dry-cleaning shop. And, yes, he’d once seen Diane and Weston together, riding without helmets on a chopper, a wise-ass biker and his wild-haired girlfriend, riding out to—
“Good night,” the male voice called out. “And thanks. I’ll ask about the slacks.”
Weston. Unmistakably, it was Weston. Coming closer—suddenly closer.
Quickly, Kane strode forward. The rear of the van came into view, then the whole van—then Weston, standing beside the van, reaching forward to pull his driver’s door open.
“Weston.” He spoke softly, cautiously, just loud enough for the other man to hear. “Shhh.” Holding the pipe with his right hand, concealed behind his leg, he raised the forefinger of his left hand to his lips. Repeating: “Shhh.”
“Wh—what?” Startled, instinctively crouching, on guard, Weston turned toward him, hands raised.
“Be quiet.” As if they were fellow conspirators, he spoke urgently, sibilantly. In the moonlight, he saw Weston’s face change as he straightened slightly, relaxing out of the self-defensive crouch. Weston had recognized him.
“You’re Daniels’s pilot.”
“Right.” He gestured back toward the road. “Come here. I want to talk with you.” Careful to keep the pipe concealed, Kane turned, strode back to the blacktop road, walked halfway to the parked Buick. He turned to face Weston, who was cautiously following him. From the east came the sound of an engine. Headlight beams were glowing from behind a low hill, then topping the rise, lowering, coming toward them, fast. As if they were reacting to the same unspoken command, both men turned away from the road, averted their faces. For this roadside meeting there must be no witnesses—no one to remember, to identify them.
Facing Weston again, still holding the pipe concealed, Kane spoke conversationally: “Mr. Daniels wants you to know that he got your note. That’s why I’ve come. I want to talk to you about that note.”
“Ah.” As if he were relieved, reassured, Weston nodded. “Yeah. Good.”
“He wants me to tell you—” As he said it, Kane brought his right hand away from his side, brought the pipe up enough for Weston to see. “He wants me to tell you that this is just for openers, just the first installment. First a pipe. Then, if you keep fucking with him, it’ll be a gun. And you’ll be dead. Have you got that? Do you understand what I’m saying, you miserable piece of—”
Weston lunged forward, swung his right fist, struck Kane high on the head, a glancing blow. Kane crouched, swung the pipe, felt the pipe strike the top of Weston’s hip, enough to throw him off balance. But, recovering, Weston threw himself forward, a wild, desperate tackle. Kane stepped back, brought up his knee into the other man’s chest, broke Weston’s grip on his legs. As Weston staggered, off balance, the pipe came crashing down, once striking the left collarbone, once striking the shoulder, once striking the base of the neck. Suddenly Weston’s knees buckled. As he fell, the final blow struck just below the left ear. Weston fell on his right side, facing the road. He tried to speak, but could only gurgle. Blood was pouring from his mouth.
Kane straightened from his crouch, stepped back. Dropping the pipe in the sand beside the road, he examined his hands for blood. There was nothing. From the west, another car was approaching. Dropping to his knees, Kane gripped Weston’s clothing, rolled him into the shallow drainage ditch beside the road. The car’s headlights were sweeping toward them. Still kneeling, Kane forced himself to remain motionless, facing away from the road. His heart was hammering; blood was pounding in his ears. The car was coming closer—closer. Then the engine’s note dropped; the headlight glare was gone, leaving only the darkness. Kane found the pipe, picked it up. As he drove past Hampton’s Pond, he would throw the pipe into the water. Then he would drive to the house on Sycamore Street. Quickly, he would shower and change. Then he would call Daniels.
But first he must bend over Weston, satisfy himself that, yes, Weston was still breathing. Gurgling and choking, yes, but still breathing.