Trouble in Paradise

He put the knife back and took out his gun.

"Fran," he yelled.

"Yo."

"Get over here."

Crow could hear Fran's footsteps as he came on the run. When he came around the corner, Crow shot him in the chest three times.

The bullets spun Fran several staggering steps sideways, and the shotgun he had been carrying sailed off into the darkness. Fran fell on his back on top of JD.

Without looking at the dead men, Crow uncocked the pistol, dropped the magazine from the handle, and put the gun back in its holster. He took some loose ammunition from his pocket and fed three fresh rounds into the magazine. Then he took the gun back out, slid the magazine back into the handle, and bolstered the gun again. He paid no attention to the two bodies lying together in the weak moonlight. He looked again out at the water and then walked down to the edge of it where it slid tamely over the stony beach.

He could see Freddie's boat now. It had moved past the rock jut and followed the tide in. It was still beyond the boulder that marked the farthest point they could wade. Crow turned and walked back into the restaurant. Macklin looked at him as he came into the romantic glow of candle light. Crow held up two fingers.

Macklin nodded and smiled and turned to the hostages.

"Not to worry, ladies, just a little downsizing," he said.

SIXTY-FOUR.

Molly Crane was alone at the desk when the call came in. She automatically registered the phone number that flashed up on the caller ID screen.

"Chief Stone, please," a woman's voice!

said.

"He's not here," Molly said.

"This is Sergeant Crane. May I help you?" ;

"Where is he?"

"Official business," Molly said.

"May I have your name, please?"

"Tell Chief Stone that if he ever wants to see his sweetheart alive, he'll make sure that nothing happens to Jimmy Macklin."

"And what sweetheart might that be?" Molly said.

As she talked, she was punching up the phone number index on the computer.

"Abby Taylor," the voice said.

"Anything happens to Jimmy Macklin, she dies."

"Would you like to make some sort of a deal?" Molly said.

"You let Jimmy go. I let Abby go."

The phone number came up on the screen. The woman was calling from Abby's phone. That was pretty brazen.

"May I speak with Abby, please?"

"And don't try to find me. I see a cop, and I'll kill her anyway."

"How do I know she's all right?" Molly said.

The woman didn't answer and the co

"Shit," Molly said aloud.

Was she really staying right in Abby's house? She called the mobile operations truck at the bridge. No answer. She shook her head once, then left the switchboard, went to her locker, and slipped into a bullet-proof vest. Then she went next door to the fire station.

Buzz Morrow was the only fireman there. Everyone else was at the explosion site.

"I'm leaving the station," she said.

"Can you cover the switchboard?"

"I'm supposed to stand by here," Buzz said.

"You got no trucks," Molly said.

"What happens if someone does report a fire. You run out and pee on it?"

"Good point," Buzz said.

"Where you going?"

She didn't answer him. She left the fire station at a half run and went to the parking lot behind the station. There were no squad cars. She stopped at her own car, a Honda Accord, took out her service pistol and racked a 9-mm cartridge up into the chamber. She let the hammer back down, put the pistol back in its holster, took a deep breath, and got in her car. She had no siren, but the town was nearly deserted and she was able to go very fast through the empty streets. She went past Abby's street slowly and looked down it. Nothing unusual. No car in front of Abby's house. She turned the corner on the next street and circled the block slowly, staying off Abby's street. Nothing unusual. She saw a dark green Mercedes sedan near the corner. But Mercedes sedans were not unusual in Paradise. She parked on the street behind and a little bit downhill from Abby's house. Her breath was shallow and coming very fast.

When she shut off the engine, she tried to slow down, relax the stomach muscles, breathe in deeply. She let her shoulders sag and closed her eyes for a minute.

Okay, okay. You're a cop, just like the other guys. You always knew you might have to do this. The fucking truth is, though, you always thought you'd be doing this with a couple of the guys.

She shook her head as if to clear it and got out of her car. She locked it and put the keys in the pocket of her uniform pants. Her pistol belt felt heavy. She hitched it higher. There was a radio on her belt and a can of Mace and some handcuffs and two extra magazines for her service pistol. The loop for the flashlight was empty.

She didn't have a come along. Or a night stick. She had a short leather sap in her right-hand back pocket. From the trunk of her Honda, she took the jack handle and carried it in her left hand.

Okay, she thought again. Okay.

She walked quietly through the neatly trimmed yard of a narrow white clapboard little house with a gambrel roof, stopped at the garage, and looked carefully into Abby's backyard. She wished she'd changed her clothes. She felt as obvious as a nudist in her uniform. The house was silent. There was no sign of life. The window shades upstairs were drawn. The caller could have removed Abby, right after she called. But it would be dangerous to try and kidnap someone in a crowded neighborhood in the middle of the day. Of course it was also dangerous to stay in the victim's house. But most people weren't conscious of caller ID. And the caller would assume that holding a hostage would protect her. And maybe the caller thought it was the place so obvious that no one would look there.

Or maybe the caller was stupid. Or desperate. Or maybe it was a hoax. Abby could be at work, entirely unaware. Molly should have called her office. But she didn't know where Abby worked, and there was no one to ask, and everything was moving too fast and here she was looking at Abby's backyard.