Envy the Night (29 page)

“What do we do?” she said, voice soft.

“I think you ought to call your FBI guy, Atkins. Tell him where they can be found. It won’t cause Ezra any trouble. It’s got nothing to do with him.”

He felt guilty about that, leaving Ezra on the island with no warning that they were turning the whole mess over to the police, but ultimately it was the thing to do.

Nora’s eyes narrowed, lines showing on her forehead. “What? Now you
do
want me to talk to the police?”

“I think you should.”

“You want to go to the police?” She repeated it again, as if it were incomprehensible.

“No, I want
you
to. I’d actually love it if you could drop me off someplace where I could rent a car. That would be a big favor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I need a car, Nora. I’ve got nothing to drive.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll work that out. If the cops, or anybody else, want to find me, they can track me down. I’ve committed no crimes, and there’s no reason I have to stay here.”

“You’re leaving? You’re
leaving
?” She leaned toward him, spat the repeated the question in his face, eyes aflame.

“I’m not going to die for Devin’s wife, Nora. I’m not going to kill for her, either. I stay and try to help, it’s going down one way or the other. Grady, the FBI agent I talked to, this was his advice, to just get in a car and get the hell away from here and keep on going. He was right, too. I just should have listened to it earlier.”

“You’re going to leave the rest of us behind?” She looked at Frank as if she’d lost all hope of communicating and shook her head. “And I’m supposed to go the police alone?”

Before he could respond she lifted her hand. “You know what, I can’t think about this right now. Before I deal with any of this, I’ve got to go see my dad, show him that I’m not
dead,
and then I can take you to get a rental car so you can run away, and then I will decide what in the world I tell the police.”

She put the truck into gear, backed up, and started down the gravel drive.

__________

I
t was as if the lake were angry with him. As if it knew what Ezra was doing out here, had listened to his conversation with Frank the night before and heard him relent, heard him plan for violence. The day that had dawned so beautifully was turning ugly, dark clouds massing in the west, the surface choppy beneath a temperamental wind, waves slapping at the beach.

A storm on the way, for sure, and though it had been a few days building—you didn’t enjoy weather this warm and this humid in the spring without paying a price for it eventually—Ezra still had the sense that it was his fault somehow, that he’d triggered the unpleasant change.

The situation was not what they’d expected, and it looked more dangerous. Handling Devin was one thing. Handling Devin and a few of his friends, even, was one thing. This, though—this could turn into a team effort, maybe already had. Who knew how many men the two from Miami had called in now. And here was Ezra, sitting on this island that he’d once loved so dearly, waiting for it to come his way.

He’d made a mistake. No, a series of them. First in calling Frank Temple’s son to begin with, then in agreeing to the boy’s proposal last night, and now in letting Frank and the girl go off alone. They shouldn’t have separated like that.

Throughout the morning’s conversation, Ezra had wondered whether Frank would break the news that Devin was alive. Once, he’d looked hard at him, trying
to convey the question, and had gotten a brief shake of the head. Apparently that had settled it, at least in Frank’s mind. But did he not intend to tell her at some point? Surely he did. Ezra guessed that Frank probably wanted to call his FBI friend, Morgan, again. Maybe bleed him for more information, maybe provide him with some. Until then, until Frank returned or offered some word, Ezra had nothing to do but wait.

He stood on the porch with his gun in his hand and watched the weather turn, listened to the soft voices from inside. Every now and then they rose a bit, usually Renee’s first and then Vaughn’s. Some sort of a dispute. He’d started out inside the cabin with them but didn’t like it, all those walls closing him in and blocking him from the world outside.

He didn’t trust either of them. Particularly Vaughn. Oh, the story they’d told had made sense enough, but something still felt off. When you got right down to it, what felt off started with the fact that they were together at all. It was an odd pairing. And while Ezra now understood Vaughn’s involvement, how he’d been nothing more than a courier for Devin and DeCaster, there was still something in him that didn’t fit.

The wind died off abruptly, just faded as if it had been sucked beneath the lake, the surface going glassy, and in the short lull before it began to blow again, Ezra figured out what it was about Vaughn that felt so wrong.

He wasn’t dangerous. That was the problem. Wasn’t . . . competent. Had still been pulling the outboard cord on his boat long after he should have noticed the tiny feed tube from the gas line had been removed, had drawn his gun clumsily, had talked too much and seen too little. No, he wasn’t competent in the way that Devin would be, or in the way that you’d expect from Devin’s hired guns.

Of course, Vaughn wasn’t a hired gun—that had already been established—but here he was with Renee Matteson, supposedly charged with her protection. That didn’t make much sense. Because if you really feared for your wife, if you were really laying emergency plans, wouldn’t you want her with another type of bodyguard? Someone less like Vaughn and more like . . . Ezra?

Vaughn must have earned the trust—but so far, Ezra couldn’t see how.

Nora was startled when the nursing home sign appeared; the entire ride had been made in an almost dreamlike state. The last two days had felt that way to her, though, a constant sense of the surreal, of disconnect from the life she knew.
That was what happened when violence stepped inside your world. Renee Matteson must know the feeling well.

Neither of them had spoken during the drive, and Frank didn’t say anything when she pulled into the nursing home parking lot. There were visitors’ spaces right by the front doors, but she avoided them today, drove all the way to the employee lot in the back of the building. If anyone was watching for her, they wouldn’t expect her to park there, or to walk in through the employee entrance. She couldn’t help feeling proud of her awareness, the ability to think of something like that on the fly.

When she turned off the engine and started to get out of the truck, Frank reached for his own door handle.

“No,” she said. “I’ll go in alone. You can wait here.”

“It would be safer—”

“
No
. I don’t want to frighten my dad, or get the nurses talking, or anything else. Nobody’s going to jump out of a closet and snatch me away. It’ll be fifteen minutes. You can wait.”

He sat there looking at her, then swung his door shut, relenting. For an instant she felt bad about her tone. Those damn sad eyes of his, working on her once again. Always confident, always strong, but always sad. She’d never seen anything else quite like them.

Then she remembered why he’d come here—to kill—and most of the guilt evaporated.

“I’ll make it quick,” she said, “and then we’ll get you a car and you can take off.”

“Take your time with your father,” Frank answered. “He loves you, and he’s worried.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. She hesitated only a moment, then slammed the door and walked away from the truck.

The employee entrance was at the back of the building, a single door with a keycard lock that was never used, or at least not during the workday. Nora had seen plenty of people come and go without pausing to use a card. The door was open today, and she stepped through and found herself in a hallway that led around to the front desk. Barb gave Nora a startled look when she emerged from the back but didn’t question it.

“Hello. He’s doing a lot better since we gave him the sedatives, but I know he wants to see you. Go on down.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope everything’s all right? It’s such a horrible thing . . .” Barb let the sentence dangle, peering over her bifocals at Nora, obviously hoping to hear some details of the most exciting news Tomahawk had heard in years.

“Horrible,” Nora echoed, nodding, and then she turned and walked away, chased by a sigh of disappointment from Barb, who’d probably been waiting all day for some insider information. Nora should have sent her out into the parking lot to talk with Frank.
His dad was a real-life hit man, Barb. Might sign an autograph if you ask nicely.

The door to her dad’s room was closed, and it creaked when she pushed it open. He was sitting up in bed and turned to face her when he heard the sound. His face split into that smile, and she felt her own do the same.

“Hi, Dad.”

“You were
worried,
” he said, meaning he was worried about her.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She crossed the room and leaned down to him, kissed his cheek and gave him a hug. He smelled like aftershave. It was one of the things he insisted on; every morning he needed a dab of Old Spice. Something about that smell and thirty years of wearing it had stuck in his brain after the stroke.

She saw the newspaper on his bed, the word
murder
in a huge bold font across the top. What an awful thing for him to see, to struggle to understand. Who in the world had let him get a copy of the damn thing, anyhow? Didn’t people around here have more sense than that?

She folded the paper without reading the story or looking at the photographs and tucked it into the wastebasket. Her father watched her.

“It sounds like a problem,” he said, speaking carefully. “You have a real problem.”

That one almost put her on her knees, driven either by laughter or tears.
Yes, Dad, it’s a problem. You have no idea just how much of a problem I’m looking at right now
.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said. “Everything’s all right. We had a bad day. It’s done, though.”

She sat on the bed, and he turned in his chair so he could keep his hand on her leg, some of the confusion and fear draining from his face. She was here now, he could reach out and touch her, and even if he didn’t understand the rest of it, that was enough.

Had Nora been in a less hostile mood, Frank would have inquired as to why she parked in the back corner of the lot. It wasn’t the ideal position as far as he
was concerned; any watchers would probably be in front of the building or on the main road, and back here Frank couldn’t see shit, had no hope of knowing what was going on. Also, the front of the building had wide banks of windows looking out on the parking lot, which meant that any attempt on their truck would be visible to those inside. Not so from their current position.

She wasn’t in a mind-set that welcomed debate, though, so he’d decided to just let her go inside and talk to her father, hope for the best. He hadn’t seen the Charger when they pulled in. The part of his brain that was most connected to his father’s ghost whispered that of course he wouldn’t see the Charger, there was no way these guys would still be using it, but he tried to shut that voice out. It was a matter of minutes now. That was what he was down to in Tomahawk. Minutes. Wait for Nora to finish here, then go rent a car, and be two or three hundred miles away by the time the sun went down.

Two or three hundred miles
west
. That’s what he decided as he sat in the passenger seat and waited for her to return. Most of his wanderings had been devoted to the East Coast or the Midwest. Why not give the Rockies a shot? Some state like Montana or Wyoming might feel more like home to him than any place had in a long time. It was a wild region, populated with private people. A damn fine mix, as far as he was concerned.

You’ve got acres of trees on the north side of the building, offering protection for a watcher as well as a clear view of the entrance to the nursing home.

The ghost was back, offering reminders Frank didn’t want to hear. There was no need to worry about this place, act like some commando preparing for a raid. It was a nursing home, and chances were the pair from Miami didn’t even know Nora’s father was a resident.

Now that you’re in the back corner of the lot, you can’t see a damn thing, but if someone’s in those trees, they saw you come in, and they’re making plans for action. You can’t make a counterattack plan, because you have no idea what the hell’s going on, and won’t until it’s too late.

It was like a chorus that caught in your brain and refused to be cast aside. He could almost see his father leaning against the side of the truck, gesturing around the parking lot with one of the cigarettes he was always promising to stop smoking. Frank tried to will the memory away, keep thinking of the Rockies, of places he’d never been and where he had no history, wide-open places with wide-open possibilities.

You’re already beaten, son. You let yourself get separated from the only person you had to take care of, the only body that needed guarding. How the hell are you supposed to help her from the parking lot if something goes down inside?

Frank drummed his fingers on the armrest, tried to think of a song to hum. Ten minutes had passed now. How long would she take? Probably not much longer. She wanted to get rid of him. Was disgusted by his, what, cowardice? Was that what she thought? Hell with her if she did. She was nothing but a stranger anyhow. Different place, different circumstances, he’d have been attracted to her, sure. Would still be tasting her lips from the previous night, remembering the way her hair had felt against his neck. This wasn’t the place, though, and these weren’t the circumstances.

You can’t see her. Don’t even know what room she’s in, don’t know a damn thing about the layout of that place, haven’t bothered to get out of the truck and into a protected position in case there’s trouble, or even clear your gun
—my
gun
—
from the holster.