Trouble in Paradise

"What if they do it quick?" Fran said.

"That's why God made hostages," Macklin said.

He looked at the Mercedes.

"Got to leave you here, old buddy," he said to the car.

"Goodbye."

He raised the 9-mm and turned his head away as if in grief and shot through the hood of the car. He laughed loudly. Fran glanced at Crow. Crow's face showed nothing.

"Come on," JD said.

"Let's get to the boat."

Macklin looked at his watch.

"We're too quick," he said.

"Got four hours still to high tide."

"We got to sit here and wait four hours?" Fran said.

"Sit someplace," Macklin said.

"You feel better sitting by the rendezvous, fine with me."

"So let's go," Fran said.

"Stop standing here out in the open."

Macklin looked at Crow and said, "These boys just haven't learned how to have fun."

"Scared," Crow said.

"No pain, no gain," Macklin said.

Crow nodded and laid the shotgun crossways on the dashboard and got in behind the wheel. JD and Fran scrambled into the backseat and Macklin, after a last look around, like a tourist leaving a favorite resort, climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. The women crouched in the cargo space behind them. The one who had been crying was silent now.

"How much you think we got?" JD said, as the van moved along the empty street.

"The houses? The retail stores? The bank? The safe deposit boxes?" Macklin said.

"Six, eight million maybe? Whaddya think, Crow?"

"I think we need to count it when we got time," Crow said.

"What if Freddie's not there?" Fran said.

"He'll be there," Macklin said.

"Freddie always does what he says. It's what makes him such a bad hard-on."

Macklin was drumming his fingertips lightly on the tops of his thighs. His eyes were bright and seemed to be opened wider than normal. His toes tapped the floorboards of the van in time with his fingertips.

"But what if he's not?" Fran said.

Macklin shifted a little in the seat so he could look straight at Fran.

"Fran, we just pulled off the mother fucker of all heists, you understand? This is a time to be cool and feel it and kick back and like it. This ain't a time to be whining."

"Fran's got four kids," Crow said.

"Shoulda thought about that when I invited him in," Macklin said.

"I did," Fran said.

"Then shut the fuck up," Macklin said.

"You don't have to talk to me that way, Jimmy," Fran said.

"I'll talk to you anyway I want," Macklin said.

"Got to understand," Crow said gently.

"Jimmy isn't doing this for the money. That's just the way he keeps score."

"You don't have to talk for me, Crow," Macklin said.

"The real thing he does it for is this, the charge, the danger, the goose it gives him, you understand? He does it same reason people do downhill skiing or sky diving. This is like getting laid for Jimmy, and right now when he's just ready to come, you're spoiling the feeling."

"What the fuck are you, Doctor Spock?" Macklin said.

Crow paid no attention to him.

"We'll pull this off or we won't," Crow said.

"And worrying out loud about it ain't going to do you any good, and it's going to piss Jimmy off really bad."

"And that won't do you any fucking good either," Macklin said.

Crow didn't say anything else. Fran was silent and so was JD.

Macklin resumed his finger drumming and toe tapping as they left the little downtown and swung onto Sea Street.

FIFTY-SEVEN.

When Jesse walked into the station with Simpson, De Angelo and Perkins, Molly was working the switchboard and covering the front desk.

"There's a guy from the Coast Guard on his way, Jesse," Molly said as he walked in, "and a State Police SWAT guy in your office."

Jesse said, "Thank you, Molly. Anthony, go find Doc Lane and bring him here."

"The bartender at the Gull?"

"Yep. If he's not working, ask the restaurant for his address. Peter, go find me a wet suit, medium. And some kind of waterproof equipment flotation. If you can't find anything closer, there's a place in Belmont on Trapelo Road."

"Flotation?"

"Yes. Go. Get it. Bring it back. Now."

Perkins and De Angelo left the station. Suitcase stayed with Jesse waiting to be told what to do. Jesse nodded toward his office, and they went in.

The SWAT team commander was a lean guy with round glasses and a crew cut. He put out a hand.

"Ray Danforth," he said.

"Jesse Stone. The big kid here is Suitcase Simpson."

"Lighter color than I remember you," Danforth said.

Suitcase looked blank. Danforth turned to Jesse.

"I got my men standing by at the explosion site," Danforth said.

"We got a mobile operations van on the way. What can you tell me?"

"What I know is that somebody blew the bridge to Stiles Island.

Somebody also blew the landing dock at the yacht club on Stiles.

No one has heard from the Stiles Island Security patrol since last night, and all the phones on Stiles give a busy signal when you call them."

"What do you guess?"