Suspicion of Madness (43 page)

How desperately sad. What could Sandra McCoy have seen in this dreary room that anyone could possibly have wanted? Nothing. There was nothing here.

Dusty bottles, jars, and atomizers with tasseled squeeze bulbs caught the candle light. Cigarette smoke curled from an ashtray. The diva herself sat on a cushioned stool with her legs crossed, painting her fingernails. A worn-out red satin slipper parted the limp and tattered feathers at the hem of her robe. She raised her hand to blow on her nails. Her image reflected at three different angles in the mirror behind her. Her dark eyes shifted to Gail.

"Are you sure you won't have a drink?"

"Joan, everyone is waiting for you. Teri's going to open a bottle of champagne."

"Ooooh, that could be lethal, after I've started on gin." Careful of her nails, Joan Sinclair picked up her martini glass.

Anthony grabbed Billy's shoulders and held him still. "Where is he? Where is your father?"

"At Joan's house. He's waiting for me." Billy looked over at Martin. "We weren't going to steal your boat, just borrow it to get to Marathon. That's where he left his truck."

Anthony repeated, "Your father is at Joan Sinclair's house right now?"

As if realizing he had said too much, Billy mumbled, "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because... there's some money. It was buried on the property by some rumrunners in Prohibition times, but nobody owns it now. It's nobody's, so he wanted to find it and buy a marina. We're going to go into business together, after we get back from Mexico... I guess that's off."

"Ay,
Dios,
Gail is on her way to pick up Joan Sinclair."

"Joan isn't there," Billy said, "and my father wouldn't do anything to Gail. He wouldn't! He's afraid Doug Lindeman might show up, so I had to give him the gun. I'm sorry, Martin. It was your gun from the office. He wasn't going to keep it, I don't think. He'd have left it in your boat when we took it to Marathon—"

"To hell with the boat," Anthony said. He forced himself to speak calmly. "Is the gun loaded?" Billy said it was. "And your father and Doug Lindeman are working together."

"I guess so. Sort of."

"Your father has a loaded revolver, and he expects Doug Lindeman to show up at Joan's house."

"In case
he shows up," said Billy.

Anthony said to Martin, "I'm leaving."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not."

Martin Greenwald took hold of Anthony's arm and pulled him into his study and shut the door. "I have a pistol. I could help."

"Give it to me," Anthony said.

"We're both going," Martin said.

"Your heart isn't strong enough. Give me the gun. Teri needs you here."

Finally agreeing that Anthony was right, Martin unlocked a drawer and handed over a Glock 19. Anthony checked that the magazine was full, then put the gun in his trousers pocket. Fad- den's revolver would have only six bullets, unless Billy had brought more.

"Get on the phone to Jack Baylor," Anthony said. "Tell him to hurry up." He laughed. "For once in my life, I'll be glad to see the police."

They hurried down some exit stairs and out a side door. Rain was coming across the open ocean, and Anthony could smell the salt. Leaves raced over the grass. Martin pushed open the door to the cart garage, and Anthony jerked the recharge cord out of the first available cart and got in. Martin told him to go around the north side and when he got to the beach, bear left. That road would lead to the gate.

Anthony paused long enough to say, "Make sure Billy doesn't follow me." He hit the accelerator, and the cart hummed at its top speed of about fifteen miles per hour along the sand path, buffeted by the wind. Waves crashed against the seawall and flooded over the lawn. It wasn't Martin's heart that Anthony had been concerned about, though yes, that was part of it. If Billy's father was going to die, it shouldn't be Martin Greenwald who pulled the trigger.

28

"I don't want to go to the Inn." Joan waved both hands back I and forth to dry her nail polish, as scarlet as her robe. "I haven't a thing to wear."

"Joan, please come. I don't want to leave you here alone."

The actress smiled sadly and bowed her head. She spoke with a British accent. "You must go now, Anabelle, and never look back. Your life is just beginning. Be happy, my darling. Just... be happy." Long lashes brushed her cheeks. Then she made a slow wink. "Greer Garson. Not bad, eh?"

Lightning flashed at the window. Gail said, "I'll call later to see how you are."

"Yes, would you? How kind." Joan swirled across the room to her stereo cabinet. "I'm in the mood for Sinatra. You know, we met in Vegas in his Rat Pack days. Frank and Dean and Sammy. Talk about wild!"

A draft lifted the heavy curtains. From upstairs came a noise, a rhythmic clanging: the piece of loose metal on the roof. The storm would break at any moment.

Gail hurried out the door and into the hall. Using the finial post for a fulcrum she swung around and went down the stairs so fast she nearly tripped. A few more steps took her through the hall. She pushed through the door and stood on the porch. Trees swayed and moaned, and a crack of thunder split the sky. Water poured off the roof. Running down the steps, shielding her cell phone from the downpour, Gail hit Anthony's number.

"No service?
Damn."

The battery was dead. Gail remembered the telephone in the hall, an old black dial model on an oak stand. She ran back up the steps. Unless she got in touch with Anthony, he would be out in this deluge looking for her.

She went back inside and picked up the telephone receiver, which was surprisingly heavy. Upstairs, Frank Sinatra was singing about the cool of the evening. With her finger poised over the circular dial, Gail realized there was no dial tone. She followed the line to see if it was plugged into the wall. The black cord was lying loose on the floor. "Oh, great."

She stood up, turned, and looked into the face of a gray-haired man in a T-shirt and waterproof pants. She staggered backward a step before she recognized him. Kyle Fadden.

"Hello. What—What are you—" She saw the gun pointed at her chest.

Fadden grabbed the front of her shirt and put the gun under her jaw. "Scream and you get a bullet. Understand me? Turn around and walk."

With his hand clamped in her hair and the gun at her back he pushed her to the kitchen. Gail saw a flight of dark, narrow stairs and tried to twist away from him. "No! I'm not going down there."

He shook her by the hair. "I want you where I can see you. Stay quiet and nothing's going to happen. Move." When she struggled, Kyle Fadden put his mouth close to her ear. "I can crack you over the head and push you down those stairs. What'll it be?"

Gail put her hands out like a blind woman. Her legs trembled. She slid her foot over the threshold, feeling for the first step.

The chain-link gate was open wide, and Anthony aimed the cart straight for it. Within seconds he was on Joan Sinclair's side of the island. The canopy of trees cut the rain but dimmed what weak sunlight leaked through. Anthony slowed to avoid a rock, went around it, and broke out into a clearing familiar from two nights ago. He accelerated the cart until the rain came at him almost horizontally.

The cart suddenly lurched. The tires on the right had dropped into a gully obscured by weeds. As he fell, Anthony instinctively threw himself in the other direction. His hip and shoulder thudded onto rain-soaked earth. He staggered up. The cart's front fender had punctured a tire.
"¡Hijo de puta!"

He looked around to get his bearings, made sure he still had the pistol, then set out at a limping run.

The house was built eight feet off the ground on pilings. The rear of the house rested on walls of concrete block that formed an above-ground basement. At the bottom of the stairs, Gail could see that Kyle Fadden had taken her down to this room. The harsh white light of a butane lantern shone on rotting sheets of plywood, a twisted bicycle frame, rusted paint cans, a propane tank. An algae-streaked concrete block cistern sat in a corner. Its heavy wooden lid lay beside it.

"Don't put me in there! Please don't—"

"I said be quiet."

Fadden pushed her toward the back of the room. He pulled a knife from a case on his belt. "Get on the ground."

"No!"

"I'm going to tie you to that column, and unless you want a gag in your mouth, shut up." He cut a length of rope, tied her hands behind her, then ran another piece of rope around one of the columns supporting the house. The ground was cold and damp, slick with vegetable rot. He took a hammer and some nails from his canvas bag and went out of sight up the stairs. Gail heard a tapping sound and guessed he was nailing the door shut. Joan wasn't likely to hear it over the music.

The details of her surroundings became clearer. The old cistern, the rusty junk scattered about, boxes, and pieces of wood. On the opposite wall, at ground level, was a ventilation hole. Through it Gail could see weeds, rocks, and the bottom step of a staircase to the back porch. The hole was big enough for a man to crawl through if he removed the wood frame and wire mesh. The frame lay on the ground. Fadden had come in this way, easier than breaking down a door.

Gail pleaded, "I don't care what you're doing in this house, but please don't kill me. I have a daughter. Her name is Karen. She's only twelve years old. She's waiting for me at home. You have a child too—Billy. What would he think if he found out—"

Kyle Fadden came over with the gun. She cowered, but he grabbed her hair and put the barrel under her cheekbone. "Keep talking, see what you get." Gail was silent. He gave her a shove. "That's the last warning."

While Gail tried to regain her ability to breathe, Fadden put the gun on the corner of an old crate and squatted beside a large box on the ground. A chain lay in a pile on the ground beside it. The box was wrapped in heavy white plastic, and Fadden began to saw at it with his knife.

In the semidarkness on the other side of the basement Gail dug her fingernails into the rope binding her to the column, feeling for play in the knots. There was enough length to the rope that she could shift her position. She scooted onto a piece of old plywood to avoid the mud oozing through her slacks. There was another piece of plywood behind her, and when she leaned against it, she was surprised to feel it give. There was a gap in the foundation. A door. Of course. How else could they take things in and out? The steps were too narrow.

Gail pressed harder against the plywood panel, stopping quickly when it began to let go. She thought if she could free her hands, she could break through the panel and run. The fear of dying in this horrible place outweighed the good chance that he might catch up to her in the woods.

She glanced back at Fadden. The plastic had come away from the box, and he ripped it off, exposing a dark metal surface. Fadden put on a welder's mask, tipping it back so he could see, then drew on a pair of heavy gloves. He lowered his mask and picked up a brass torch connected by hoses to two small tanks. He held a loop of wire under the torch, clicked it, and fire shot from the nozzle.

His shadow moved across the wall. He adjusted the flame and put it to one of the hinges on the box. The sharp blue point of the torch ate slowly into the metal.

Gail picked more furiously at the rope.

Anthony slipped, caught himself on the railing, and went up the rest of the way in a low crouch. On the porch he stood against the wall. He could hear the rain on the tin roof and music from inside the house. Holding the pistol he inched closer to the door. He opened the screen, turned the knob, and went inside, gun extended. There was a loud crack behind him. He spun around to see a tree limb crash to the ground.

Anthony looked into the small room off the hall, found no one, then went through the living room, across the TV room with its hundreds of video boxes, then into the kitchen. Dishes and pots were stacked in the cast-iron sink. Pale light came through dust-grimed windows. Anthony noticed a small wooden door, perhaps to a pantry, and turned the glass knob. He pushed. The door didn't give. He went out the way he had come and looked up the stairs.

The treads creaked under his feet as he climbed. He stopped and looked through the balusters into the upstairs hall, then went the rest of the way. The music was louder, a trumpet solo, coming from behind a closed door.

He put his hand on the knob, turned it slowly, then swung the door open.

Joan Sinclair was sitting at a dressing table in a red robe and black wig. Her startled face looked at him in the mirror. She turned around with a tube of lipstick in her hand. "My God. Is this a train station?" She saw the gun. "What are you doing?"

Anthony put the gun away. "I'm looking for Gail. Where is she?"

"She just left. She invited me to the Inn, and I didn't want to go, so she—"

"Is Kyle Fadden here? Billy's father, have you seen him?"

Joan Sinclair pulled a tissue from a box and carefully blotted her lips. "He was supposed to fix my roof, but he never showed up. It's leaking all over the place."