Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night

"Not as long as you share," Lee said.

Marlena went into the bedroom and came back with her cigarettes. She lit one, then handed the pack and matches to Lee. "I read over the report." She casually moved her chair to give her some distance. "There was no mention as to where Fletcher is staying on the island."

"That's because we don't know. Fletcher's highly educated with surveillance techniques, so we can't use our normal methods. Plus, he tends to move around only at night, which presents its own set of problems. Now, tell me what you've heard about him."

"Mainly that he's brilliant."

"Without a doubt. When he worked for Investigative Support, he had the highest clearance rate on serial murder. Unfortunately, Fletcher crossed a line. Instead of bringing these monsters in, he acted as their judge, jury and executioner. When the bureau found out what he was doing, they sent three agents to Fletcher's home to handle the matter discreetly. One agent is brain dead and hooked up to a feeding tube. The other two agents…we still don't have any idea what happened to them. Fletcher's been on the run ever since."

"How did you find him?"

"The informant mentioned in the report is a secretary at Prince's firm. For years, we've believed Fletcher used the Caymans to shift around his money and change identities. Now we know it's true. She supplied us with the aliases Fletcher's been using, his bank accounts, you name it."

Lee lit his cigarette, tossed the match off the balcony. "Fletcher's scheduled to meet Prince at ten. The cocktail party will be crowded, everyone holding drinks, trying not to bump into one another. You're going to walk behind Fletcher, touch the back of his arm and say, 'Excuse me'-you know, pretend to bump into him. Go for a casual approach, it always works best."

"And if Fletcher approaches me?"

"Then you talk to him. Be yourself, flirt with him, touch his arm or shoulder like you're interested, and then find a way to put the transmitter on him-and once you do, don't disengage right away. That will look suspicious. Talk to him for a few minutes, and then find a way to excuse yourself. We'll take it from there."

"Why did the secretary give up Fletcher?"

"She's pla

"Why not just approach Fletcher directly? You certainly have the manpower."

"True, but then we'd have to bring in the locals. Prince has many friends on the inside, people who can be easily bought. There are extradition issues and some others that don't concern you.

"Look, Marlena, I can understand why you're nervous," Lee said. "But you've got to trust me when I say I have all the bases covered. The watch in your purse is equipped with a listening device, so we'll all be listening in. If there's a problem or a change in plans, Jacobs will get word to you. And if I think you're in danger, I'll pull you out. We've got a boat standing by, just in case. You'll be fine as long as you remember this rule-under no circumstances are you to go anywhere alone with Fletcher." "Jacobs mentioned that."

"Head over to the party around eight and get a feel for the place. Your name is already on the guest list. The set of keys on your bed belong to a black Mercedes parked out in the back lot. The directions to the club are under the seat."

Marlena stared out at the water.

"Wipe that look off your face," Lee said. "Everything's going to be fine."

You keep saying that, Marlena thought, wondering who Lee was really trying to convince.

The yacht club was located at the opposite end of the island, a remote and stu

It was coming up on ten. For the past half hour, Marlena had been forced to listen to a fossil named William Bingham, aka Billy Bing, the Mercedes King of Fresno, California, talk about sailing the way you'd talk about great sex. As she pretended to listen, sca

This wasn't the first time she had purchased something for her mother after she died-this past Christmas she had dropped two hundred dollars on a cashmere sweater at Talbots. It wasn't like she could take the sweater or the postcards to her mother's grave. Ruthie Sanchez didn't have a grave. Like so many 9/11 victims, her remains were never found-and they would never be found because Marlena had signed away all rights to her mother's remains in exchange for a lucrative settlement that had allowed her to put her severely autistic brother in a special home.

Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of psychology would say her need to purchase gifts for her dead mother was about not wanting to let go. Fine. But there was another reason, something Marlena had told no one, not even her therapist. Every time she held the postcards, the Christmas sweater, the crystal vase she had bought on the first a

Marlena snapped her mind back to the present. Billy Bing was still talking; something to do with golf. Thank God, here came the waiter with her glass of wine.

"A gentleman at the bar wanted me to give this to you," the waiter said, and handed her a folded napkin.

Written in black ink was a message: Use phone on top of cooler inside boat Falling Star, near end of dock. Untie boat, then call and follow instructions. Jacobs. A phone number was written under his name.

Marlena politely excused herself from the conversation and headed for the docks, remembering Lee's words from this afternoon: If I think you're in danger, I'll pull you out of there. We've got a boat standing by.

So something had gone wrong, and now she was in danger.

Heart pounding, she stood on the dock in front of the Falling Star, an oversized Boston whaler, the kind of charter boat most likely used for deep-sea fishing. The boat was dark and empty, but the one moored next to it, a Sea Ray motor yacht, was lit up and packed with well-dressed people drinking highballs and smoking cigarettes and cigars.

Marlena took in her surroundings. A lot of people were milling around on the docks but nobody was heading this way. Okay, get moving. She stepped on board the Falling Star, feeling it rock beneath her heels, and set her wineglass and purse on the table inside the cabin. Under the table were two matching extra-large Coleman coolers wrapped in chains and secured by padlocks. A third Coleman sat against the wall behind her, near the cabin door. This cooler wasn't locked; the chains had been removed and lay in a ball on the floor. Sitting on the cooler's top were two items: a cell phone and a set of keys. The top, she noticed, wasn't fully shut.