Cut and Run

Above the loud drone of the air conditioner, Larson heard hurried footsteps overhead. Someone going up and down stairs. Shouting, although too muted to make out the words.

What if the other man had not left the island but instead was bringing the Valentis’ boat around in order to load up and evacuate the professor? What if Miller’s electronic probing had somehow been detected? Or what if Markowitz’s work was complete: Laena now fully decrypted? What if Markowitz himself was expected at the upcoming mob meeting?

A room light glowed from the first floor. Larson reached down and touched the butt of his Glock but did not arm himself.

For the next ten minutes he patiently awaited delivery of di

There, his fears and his theory were confirmed as he nearly tripped over two rollerboard suitcases and a cardboard box stacked outside at the top of the stairs. Through a kitchen door that was primarily glass, he saw the kitchen countertops in disarray, glass and plastic bottles of every variety, from peanut butter to cranberry juice, some empty, some not, all lined up on a center island like soldiers. Fingerprints, he realized. Any surface capable of carrying a fingerprint had been brought out of the cupboards and sequestered. Wiped down, no doubt.

Close by now, the seaplane’s engines groaned in bursts. The aircraft had landed and was taxiing. Its engines finally wound down and fell silent. Larson had seen a long dock off the crescent beach and believed the seaplane likely had tied up there.

At that instant, a golf cart’s dim headlights broke the darkness of the lane. The vehicle motored silently up to the front of The Sand Dollar and a college kid climbed out and carried a tray up the front stairs. Larson heard the bell chime through the walls and waited first for the sound of feet approaching. A man’s back appeared, heading away from Larson down a peach and turquoise hallway toward the front door.

With the man’s back to him, Larson stepped around the luggage to the kitchen door and tried the knob. It turned. He pushed through and stepped inside, working to shut the door soundlessly behind himself.

Two careful steps took him deeper into the kitchen and away from any line of sight from the front door.

He co

He slipped quietly into a small dining room. A large mirror was centered on the longest wall and held in a seashell frame. In the mirror’s reflection, Larson saw the man at the door in profile as he tipped the college kid, accepted the tray of food, and then, closing the door, set the tray on the floor. He turned away from it, showing no intention of eating it.

Larson heard the man’s quick ascent of the stairs and his arrival on the second floor. “Get it done!” the man hollered. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”

“It’s on its way now,” came another man’s strong voice. Older perhaps. Defiant. “It’s a large file. Several minutes at least. Just pack or whatever. Don’t rush me.”

Markowitz.

“They’re here now!” the younger voice said. “Just landed. They’ll be down here any minute to pick up our stuff. Hurry it up!”

“I said it’s on its way!” the old man replied. “There’s nothing I can do about transmission speed.”

Larson heard the distinctive clicking of furious typing at a keyboard. It’s on its way. Was that Laena he referred to? Transmission speed. Where, and to whom?

Seeing no other choice but to make his move, Larson withdrew his weapon and rounded the corner into the hallway. He slipped past the smells of a fish di

He took his first tentative step, his weapon aimed straight up the tu

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Tommy Tomelson let himself into the hotel room with his own electronic key card. He was sweating, a sour, bitter odor coming from him, as he turned and both locked and barred the door. He clutched a maid’s black-and-white uniform under his left arm. Extending the dress to her, he instructed, “Put this on. And hurry!”

She stepped toward the bathroom, but Tomelson blocked her advance with an outstretched arm.

“No need to undress,” he said. “Besides, I don’t want you trapped in there.” He pointed first to the drawn blinds, then to the door behind him. “Windows and the door. Quick egress.” He turned his back to give her privacy, facing the door. “Keep your clothes on. Just get the dress on over them.”

“What’s the hurry?”

Tomelson’s eyes said it all.

“Someone’s here?”

“A guy at the front desk asked some questions,” he told her. “No idea how he found us so fast.”

Hope glanced back at the television. For the past forty-five minutes she’d been agonizing over what to do. Before ru

Tomelson said, “I’m not taking any chances.”

She considered explaining what she’d done but ate her words. She tried to pull her pants up on her calves, but it was no use; the pant legs would stick out from beneath the dress. She inspected the garment, unzipped it, and pulled it on over her head. The top of the dress hid her shirt, but its skirt, with a mock apron sewn in place, stopped at her knees. She reached up under the dress and, kicking off her shoes, unfastened her pants and slipped them off, stepping out of them.

Tomelson located a hotel laundry bag in the closet and handed it to her. She put the pants into this bag.

There was music playing somewhere nearby. Children’s voices shouting, “Trick or treat!” Only a few days ago she and Pe

“The shoes are wrong,” she said, looking down.

Brown slip-ons with a black uniform.

Tomelson didn’t dignify that with a comment. Instead, he said, “You’ll go calmly down the hall. Use the stairs. You’ll leave out the back of the hotel, by the putting green. Head down the bike path. It’s crazy out there because of Halloween. Find someplace nice and public. When you do, call me.”

He scratched out a phone number, tore off the corner of the magazine he’d written it on, and passed it to her. His hand was shaking, either from alcohol or nerves.

Hope pocketed the number in the front of her maid’s apron.

Behind Tomelson, the door kicked in and she felt the thunder of shots fired.

Hope dived to the floor, so dizzy with fear she couldn’t see.