Beachcomber (9 page)

That was the reason Boyce had tracked him down in Cayman Brac, where Luke had been scuba diving with friends. Upon hearing that Donnie Jr. had disappeared, Luke had immediately packed up his gear, abandoned his vacation, and grabbed a plane to Durham, North Carolina, from which he would travel on to Ocracoke Island, where, according to a snippet of cell phone conversation overheard by the Bureau’s electronic ears, a large sum of money was being transported by courier for some unspecified purpose. The unlikely locale—Jersey was DePalma and company’s usual turf, with satellite operations in New York and Philadelphia—that was nevertheless a known haunt of the DePalma family’s, the amount of money involved, the urgency, the timing, all pointed to a rendezvous with Michael DePalma, in Luke’s estimation. In Durham, at Boyce’s request, the local office had provided him with a car, equipment, and a temporary partner in the person of Gary. The car had been passable, the equipment something less than state-of-the-art, and Gary an absolute whiz with computers, as advertised, though unfortunately less than stellar at just about everything else. Just
that morning they’d gotten into Ocracoke and moved into the cottage that had been emptied for them the day before by agents posing as sweepstakes operators. Next door, Christy Petrino was already in residence. Luke had been surprised—no, make that flabbergasted—to discover that the bagman whose activities they were tracking was none other than Donnie Jr.’s sexy lawyer girlfriend. But it had served to reinforce his gut feeling that Michael DePalma was the intended recipient of the money. Why else would they use her, unless Donnie Jr., who’d had to split fast, meant to pick up both girl and money at the same time?

But there were some problems with that theory, as he was discovering. Christy Petrino was scared. There was no mistaking that. By going with Plan B, which was to get close to her if possible and see what he could uncover by way of a few friendly chats, he’d seen her in a whole new light. As Donnie Jr.’s girlfriend, her image captured on dozens of videotapes, she’d seemed coolly confident, a brainy looker with her eye on the main chance. When he got up close and personal, she seemed—defenseless. Threatened. And, yes, face the truth, sexy as hell.

That last part worried him. He was afraid that it might be clouding his judgment. Because he was starting to wonder if Christy was here on Ocracoke of her own free will at all. The tone of that phone call, along with her demeanor and his instincts, had him wondering if she was being threatened or somehow coerced.

That was the thought he was mulling as he pulled into the parking lot of the Crosswinds Hotel. It was a
small place, two-story frame, seventeen guest rooms with a pool out back. Laid-back family atmosphere. Luke knew, because he’d checked out just about everything and everyone on the damned island before he’d arrived.

The lot was pretty much full, which meant that it held about twenty cars total. The empty spot where the Maxima had been parked was easy to spot. Luke stopped across from it, got out, and, taking a flashlight from the back, checked out the space and the surrounding area, hoping to find something, an ATM receipt, a dropped business card, anything, that would provide some clue as to who had been in the car. All he found was a crushed coffee cup from Starbucks, which was one of Donnie Jr.’s favorite stops. Could have been anybody’s, he knew, but he picked it up on the off chance that it might provide some kind of useful evidence if analyzed. Other than that, nothing. Not even so much as an oil slick. Tomorrow he would do some discreet investigating into the hotel’s guests, but he was already fairly sure that the party he sought would not be among them. That would make it too simple. So far, nothing about this had been simple.

Getting back in the SUV, he spent about twenty minutes cruising around the island. The layout wasn’t complicated: besides the long and twisty road that ran parallel to the shore, there were basically two main thoroughfares heading up through town. These were called, imaginatively, Back Street and Front Road, and at this time of night they were pretty much devoid of traffic. The problem was that this was high season in a
veritable Mecca for tourists. There were cars everywhere, parked in driveways and hotel lots and campgrounds. Along streets. At the marina. Dozens of cars. Hundreds of cars. As far as he could tell, the one he sought was not among them. There were also lots of places, like garages and obscure dirt tracks and under tarps in backyards, where a car could be hidden from view. Finally he gave it up. His best bet was to stake out the ferries when they resumed operating at seven
A.M.
If he made sure they were both covered, he would at least know if the car left the island.

It was after four when Luke got back to the cottage and found Gary nodding off in the wicker chair. Luke poked him in the shoulder. Gary roused with a start.

“Anything?” Luke asked, nodding at the monitor, which was turned on but showed nothing more than a dark screen. There was only the one camera, and its range didn’t extend into the bedrooms or bathroom. Coverage of the doors and central living area had been what Luke had been after, and that was what he was looking at now: clearly the house was dark.

“Nah. She turned out the lights and went to bed not long after you left.” Gary yawned hugely. “You find anything?”

“Nope. At seven we start watching the ferries. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to try to grab a couple hours’ sleep.”

“Yeah.” Gary stood up, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “What about her?” He nodded at the monitor.

“Got it covered.”

“Great.” Blinking like a sleepy owl, Gary muttered something that sounded like good night and headed for his bedroom. Luke thought regretfully about the queen-sized bed in the room he’d claimed for his own. But the surveillance equipment was in here, and just in case she should get another call or something during the night he wanted to be on hand. Luckily, he was a notoriously light sleeper. As long as he was in the same room as the monitor he could grab what sleep he could and still be confident of not missing anything.

A shower would have been a good thing, but he wasn’t about to waste any of his precious two-plus hours on that. Stripping down, he turned the light off and fell into the twin bed naked. Turning onto his side, pulling the covers up around his shoulders, he cast one last bleary glance at the monitor. Not that he could see anything. Except for the tiny green light that reassured him that it was still on and functioning, it was as dark as the inside of the cottage. But, he reminded himself, there was audio feed as well, and if she breathed hard he would hear her.

As tired as he was, he only hoped she didn’t.

5

E
ARLIER HE HAD FOLLOWED
Christy Petrino along the beach, taking his time, enjoying her rising fear. She’d been skittish, nervous no doubt about walking alone so late at night. With good reason, as he knew better than anyone. He’d kept her in his sights, jogging along, stopping when she did, in no hurry to do his thing. Now everything had changed: she had to die. Now. Tonight. The timing was wrong, the location was wrong, everything was wrong, but it couldn’t be helped. She had seen him, down there on the beach as she’d crouched over Liz. She’d gotten a good, long look, just as he’d gotten a good, long look at her. To her, he was no longer invisible. Before she could remember where she had seen him prior to that little exchange of glances on the beach, before she could tell them something that might be used to bring him down, he was going to kill her.

The problem was, he was used to taking women in a time and place of his choosing. It had been a long time since a kill had been forced on him like this. The change had rattled him; he’d lost his cool. He realized that as the
slim pick he was just about to insert into the keyhole clattered against the metal lock on the front door of her cottage. Freezing as the sound died away, he paused to listen. Inside, the cottage remained dark and still. No light came on. There was no sign that she had heard. The sound had been barely audible, of course. His heightened senses had magnified it a thousand times.

It wasn’t like him to be this jazzed up. Glancing down, he saw that his hands were shaking. His hands never shook. Too much adrenaline. He could hear his pulse racing, hear the pounding beat of his own blood in his ears. His muscles were tense, too tense, and he was breathing hard and fast. His grip on the pick was too tight.

Breaking into houses was not something that he did very often anymore. He’d been good at it, once, but his skills had grown rusty. Putting the pick between his teeth, he flexed his gloved hands, then tried again. The pick slid into the keyhole. Pressing deep, he manipulated the tip. Nothing.

He tried again.

He should have been in just like that, but the lock was surprisingly stubborn. The truth was, Liz’s escape had unsettled him. How had she gotten out of her cage? None of them had ever escaped before. Not one.

He could worry later about how she’d done it, he told himself. For now, it should be enough to know that he had reclaimed her, punished her, silenced her. Forever. The look of utter terror in her eyes as he’d grabbed her hair and yanked her head back to deliver the coup de grâce flashed into his mind’s eye. She’d
tried to fight, tried to scream, but she was too weak and he was too fast. Her neck had been like butter; his knife had sliced right through. Her eyes, which had been staring into his, had widened, flickered, as she’d felt the blade. It was over in an instant. Her choked cry had turned into a liquid gurgle. The sharp smell of blood had filled his nostrils. Her eyes had been just starting to glaze over when he’d had to tear himself away. But even though the moment had been foreshortened, the pleasure had been intense. The triumph had been intense.

But because he’d had to stop to take care of Liz, Christy had gotten away. Not for long, though. There was still an hour or so left until dawn. He could still make things right. There was plenty of time.

He’d had to leave Liz’s body on the beach; there’d been no time to do anything else. She was the first one of his that had been discovered since he’d moved south. It worried him that she had been found. Her body would yield clues to his identity, he knew. Bodies, like crime scenes, always did.

But clues were only as good as the people who interpreted them. And whatever they found would not be enough to identify him. Unless Christy pointed them in the right direction; then the clues might be enough to put him away.

The lock clicked open at last with a small metallic
snick
that seemed to echo like a gunshot in his ears. Restoring the pick to the tool belt at his waist, he glanced cautiously around. The night was dark and shadowy and alive with sounds: the whirring of insects, the piping of tree frogs, the distant hiss of the sea.
The twin palmettos in the small front yard rustled as the brisk breeze ruffled their leaves. Closer at hand, tall shrubberies shielded the concrete stoop on which he stood. There was no one around. The help that had come too late for Liz was long gone, and the road in front of the house was deserted. The houses on either side were dark. Even their low-slung outlines were almost impossible to see, shrouded as they were in the blanket of night.

Turning the knob slowly, careful not to make any more noise than he had to, he let himself into the house. For a moment after he closed the door he stood motionless, letting his senses expand, taking the pulse of his surroundings. His eyes adjusted quickly. He was standing in the middle of the living area. A curtained patio door was straight ahead. A faint yellow glow lightened the edges of the curtains. She had the patio light on. He smirked a little at that. As if a light would stop him, or even slow him down.

The open kitchen was to his left. The bedrooms would be—

He heard a noise and looked sharply to his right.

It was the kind of sound a woman surprised by something might make: a cross between a gasp and a cry. He tensed, ready to jump her, scanning the darkness but coming up blank. Where was she? Had she seen him? Was she now backing away, trying to escape, trying to hide?

Frozen in place, he listened intently. There were no retreating footsteps, no hushed breaths, nothing to indicate stealthy, panicked flight. After a minute or so of
strained waiting, he heard something else: the faintest of incoherent murmurs. It was followed by the creak of a mattress and the rustle of bedclothes. Slowly he let out the breath he was holding. The sounds of a restless sleeper? Almost certainly. The cry? Maybe she was having a nightmare. And why not? She’d found Liz. And she’d seen him, down there on the beach. Was her subconscious replaying her fear, her horror,
her memories?
Was he starring on her mental movie screen even now? He lingered over the thought that he was the subject of her dreams and found that he was enjoying it. Even if this particular bad dream wasn’t about him, he could just about guarantee her next one would be.

A small smile played around his mouth.
Guess what, Christy. Your worst nightmare is already right here in your house.