Trouble in Paradise

"Maybe they don't know that," Jesse said.

"No way they would unless they explored it," Winslow said.

"Most people buy onto an island like this, they want beaches, you know? But Stiles Island uses the ocean like a Christly moat."

"It's working," Jesse said.

"Are you guys enough?" Winslow said.

"Have to be," Jesse said.

"Don't have that many left. Molly's at the station, Arthur and John Maguire are securing that end of the bridge, and I don't know where Eddie Cox is."

"Sears and Pope?" Winslow said.

"Probably dead," Jesse said.

"Jesus."

They were in the middle of the harbor now, past the cluster of pleasure boats moored in closer to the dock. Winslow turned the boat north, ru

Ahead of them Jesse could see the fanciful cornices of the yacht club, white and pink, with a playful balcony across the second floor and a high-peaked red roof. Stiles Island people were very proud of it. Jesse thought it looked like an eighty-dollar-a-night motel in Flagstaff. The landing dock was actually a kind of catwalk set on pilings that went out nearly the length of a football field into the harbor. At the end of the catwalk, down a short flight of stairs, was a wide float anchored to the bottom and tethered to the catwalk pilings. There was enough play in the anchor chains so that the float rolled gently with the movement of the harbor. There was a resting bottom up on the float. No one was in sight. Winslow aimed the nose of the town boat straight at the float. As Jesse watched, the float began to heave and then it and the catwalk elevated as the sound of the explosion rolled across the water to them. The float turned over twice in midair. The empty drums that helped it float tore loose and scattered across the water. The catwalk disintegrated in midair, and the pieces seemed to hang there, as the float drifted down and landed bottom side up in the suddenly frantic water. The town boat pitched as the waves reached it, and Winslow wrestled the wheel around to stay stable. The silence after the explosion seemed louder than silence could be. It was underscored but not dispelled by the sound of the boat engine and the now turbulent ocean slapping against the hull. Winslow throttled back and held the boat sideways, idling, in the deep swells. No one spoke for a moment.

Then Jesse said, "Bad guys two, cops zip."

Winslow said, "What do you want me to do now, Jesse?"

"You know anyplace else to land?"

"No."

"Who would?"

Winslow shrugged.

"Maybe there ain't a place," he said.

"There'll be a place. Who knows the harbor better than you?"

"Can't say anybody does," Winslow said.

"Then let's go back to town," Jesse said.

The boat made a wide turn, and Winslow throttled up for the run back to the town wharf.

Suitcase said, "Usually get three strikes, don't you, Jesse?"

"At least," Jesse said.

FIFTY-SIX.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Macklin said, holding the 9-mm almost negligently at his side, "as you no doubt have figured, the shit has hit the fan, and it is time for us to go. We thank you for your patience, and your valuables."

The bank employees stood silent, standing close together as if for warmth.

Behind him, Fran was carrying the last duffel bag out of the vault toward the stairs to the street where JD held the van with its motor ru

"Okay," Macklin said.

"We need some hostages for a while."

He looked at Crow.

"Gimme five women. They're less trouble."

Crow moved in among the employees and cut out the five hostages. They moved numbly, not knowing what else to do.

"We won't need them for too long," Macklin said.

"We'll let them go when we leave. The rest of you want to run around after we've left and free some of your friends and neighbors," Macklin said, "go right ahead."

He gri

"Any questions?"

No one spoke.

"Hasta la vista."

He turned and nodded at Crow and the two of them walked from the vault. No one in the vault moved. Macklin and Crow walked upstairs and through the empty bank, moving the women before them the way dogs move sheep. Crow's van was parked at the bank entrance right behind Macklin's Mercedes. JD and Fran were leaning on the van. Both had shotguns, and both men had a pinched look to their faces. Marcy was sitting on the floor in the back of the van. Crow herded the five women into the back of the van with her.

"What are they for?" JD said.

"Hostages," Macklin said.

"We already got her," JD said, nodding at Marcy.

"Can't have too many," Macklin said.

In the back of the van, crouched on the floor among the loaded duffel bags, a very young plump woman with a lot of frizzy blond hair began to cry. An older woman with gray hair in a tight perm, and horn-rimmed glasses on a strap around her neck, put her arm around the young woman and patted her shoulder. Marcy watched silently. You'll get used to it, she thought. She was, after all, a veteran hostage. She had several hours experience on these women.

"It's going to be all right," the older woman said.

"It's going to be fine."

Maybe, Marcy thought, and maybe not. Macklin looked at JD and Fran.

"Are we having fun yet?" he said.

"How long you think, Jimmy, before the cops get here?" Fran said.

"Long as it takes to get a big chopper up here and put a SWAT team on it."