A Perfect Life (29 page)

CHAPTER 45

Spinnaker Island had one hotel—a vaguely Victorian affair with stylized trim and a decent restaurant. At least according to the sales rep, the place was pretty good. So, around eleven, Scott and Natalie eschewed the mud-caked golf cart in favor of a leisurely stroll into town.

It really was a beautiful place.

Planned developments tend to go one of two ways—big chunks of brick and stucco on postage-stamp lots or overly cute gingerbread cottages with happily painted birdhouses and cute cottages with names over the doors. But Charles Hunter had gotten this one just right. The center of this otherwise sparsely developed island looked like an early-American village. There was a town square surrounded by medical offices, two banks, one bookstore, and half a dozen small markets and shops. The town hall—an imposing structure at the head of the square—was balanced by the hotel at the other end. In between, children played on jungle gyms and people of all ages ate lunches on concrete picnic tables—too many people, in fact, for them all to be residents. It seemed that Charles Hunter's island had become something of a day-trip destination for Carolina mainlanders.

The designers had valued the imperfect in pursuing perfection. The playground wasn't hidden behind a building or a clump of trees. And, while the design of the buildings clearly had a central guiding hand, they were different enough in materials and design to make the place look real. No carpets of delicate lawn or manicured beds of roses here. The grass was made for running on and the plants looked as though they'd grown undisturbed there for decades.

Spinnaker Island wasn't cute. It just looked the way an American town should, but probably never had.

It took only minutes to get a table. When they were seated and had ordered iced tea, Natalie asked if it was her turn.

Scott scanned the gaggle of happy faces around the other tables. “What do you mean?”

“We've been talking about
timing
all day. I want to tell you about my discoveries.”

Scott turned so that he could watch the entrance to the restaurant.

“Hello?”

His eyes moved to Natalie's face. “Sorry.”

She smiled. “I want to talk about me now.”

His eyes moved over her face, and he smiled back. “You said you broke the code in the e-mails, but the lists of numbers were nothing but addresses.”

“That's what I mean.” She took a sip of tea, tore open a third pack of sugar, and dumped it in. “You get to go on and on about timing and guiding influences, and I get one sentence to describe brilliance.”

“Sorry. Tell me.”

It was a lot like listening to Peter Budzik describing how he discovered Click's identity on the Internet. The thought sent chills through Scott's gut. The last time he'd seen Budzik, the little hacker had been lying naked in bed with his throat cut. But Natalie was not Budzik.

She stopped in midsentence. “Are you all right? You look awful.”

Scott drank some tea. In his mind's eye, he had been thinking of the night before and picturing Bobby, standing alone in the rain and watching his big brother drive away as if fleeing a monster. He shook his head to clear the picture. “Sorry. A lot of bad things have happened . . .”

She tried to change the subject, but Scott wanted to know what she'd found and how she'd found it. It could be important, he said.

She looked pleased. “Okay, here it is. I cheated. After staring at a list of numbers for an hour, I called a friend at Boston College. I told him what I had—a list of numbers separated by commas and spaces and with every few numbers in bold. Apparently, Click ain't all that original. My friend said it's an old encryption trick. The bold numbers—and the first number in every e-mail was bolded—tell how many keys to count on the keyboard before starting the code. For example, if the first number is, say, seventeen, you'd start at the upper left key on the keyboard—the one with that squiggly thing at the top—and count across and down until you come to the ‘e.' I remember that one. Anyway, the ‘e' in this case would be the key to the rest of the numbers. If the next number is a six, you don't start back over at the top. You just count over six letters from the ‘e,' which”—she looked at the ceiling and squinted—“I believe is an ‘o.' Then if the next number is a four, you back up to the ‘e' and count over to the ‘y.'” The next word starts with the next bold number.”

Scott said one word. “Cool.” And he meant it.

“Yeah.” She grinned. “It kind of is.”

“But you said the addresses didn't mean anything to you.”

An effeminate man came over and took their orders. When he left, Scott asked, “Do you remember any of the addresses?”

She reached down and grabbed her purse. “They're right here. Have a look.”

He scanned down the list and cussed. “Well, the fifth one is mine.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah. I forgot you've never been to my apartment in Cambridge.” He studied the other addresses. Most were near the hospital, but otherwise they meant nothing to him. He handed the list back to Natalie as the waiter placed two salads on the table.

The food was good. Scott tried to make pleasant conversation—to divert Natalie's mind and his own from the task at hand. But when the meal was done and Natalie had ordered coffee, he told her he had to go. “Bobby wanted to talk to me last night. I need to go back and try to find him.”

Natalie's expression never changed, but the skin around her mouth turned pale. “He scares me, Scott. Do you really have to . . .” Her voice trailed off, the answer obvious.

“I'll be careful.”

Natalie laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Bull. I haven't known you that long, but ‘careful' is not how I'd describe you.”

Scott got up from the table. “Stay in town, okay?”

She looked puzzled.

“Around lots of people.”

“Oh.”

He said, “Back soon,” and headed off across the town green.

Charles Hunter had not gone to work that morning. Now he sat in his usual chair on the patio and watched Sarah play on the beach. At not quite noon, he was already drinking. His only bow to propriety being in the form of a Bloody Mary rather than his usual single-malt.

Kate sat on the rock-strewn sand near Sarah. Charles called out for her, and both girls came. He smiled at his daughter. “I've got some grown-up talk to do with Kate. Run along and play for a few minutes.”

“I want to stay and listen.”

He shook his head. “Go on, now. I mean it.”

Sarah kicked at the ground and wandered slowly back out on the beach. Charles waited patiently until she was out of earshot.

He motioned at a chair. “Please. Sit down.”

Kate managed to walk just a little too close to her boss as she crossed to the chair and draped one suntanned leg carefully over the other. When she was comfortable, the nanny looked into his eyes. “What is it, Charles?”

He took a long pull at his drink and plunked it down on the table. “How long have we known each other, Kate?”

She smiled. “You and I became friends about six . . . no, seven months ago. It was just before the dedication of the new children's wing at the hospital.”

“Right.”

“Everyone was talking about the famous architect Charles Hunter who had donated his services to help the hospital.” She reached over to gently place her fingertips on his forearm. Just a quick touch. “I asked Dr. Reynolds to introduce us.”

“Even then,” he said, “we talked about your coming here to the island to work for me, either as a nanny or for one of the physicians on the square.” He picked up his glass and looked into it, then put it back on the table. “You were very understanding after Trey died. I don't know if I've ever told you, Kate, how much I appreciated your concern. Then you managed to get assigned to Patricia—to keep me up to speed on what was happening.” He paused. “You understood what she had done to my family.”

Kate reached over and squeezed his arm. “She seduced Trey, her own son. Even if it was by marriage. She was his mother, and she drove the poor kid to—”

“Kate . . .”

“No. I won't stop. Patricia was a horrible person. You made that clear to me, and everything I saw at the hospital only confirmed your worst stories about her.” She leaned forward to look into his eyes. “I shouldn't say this, but I'm glad she's dead, Charles. And you shouldn't feel guilty. Not one bit. You checked out Scott Thomas. Found out all about his childhood and his family. You told me about him, about how concerned you were that he might harm Patricia. And you could've had him fired—an important man like you—but . . .” A bright fire burned in her eyes. “Let's just say we're both better off. The woman who dirtied your son is dead. You're free, and I have a whole new life.”

“You're going to have to leave here, Kate.”

Her face flushed. “What?” She caught her tone and softened it. “Have I done something to upset you? I'm sorry I brought up Patricia's abuse of poor Trey. That I talked about what she . . . what she drove him to do.”

Charles concentrated on her face. Kate was a hard woman to read, and he knew he'd only see flashes of any real emotions. “Your friend Click is on the island.”

“Who?” She never missed a beat.

“Click. Darryl Simmons. I met with him last night. That's where I had to go at eight. The man you hired to kill my wife. He's here on the island.”

Kate began to cry. The tears were real. “Charles, I don't know how you can say—”

“Scott Thomas is here, too.”

Now her mouth turned hard. “Goddammit, Charles. How can you allow that murderer to be here in your special place? He's the one who killed poor Patricia. The cops have already—”

He cut her off. “The police are having problems with the case against Thomas.” He killed the watery remains of vodka-laced tomato juice and looked hard into Kate's eyes. “He's staying in one of the guest cottages. I talked to people who
know
in Boston. I mean really
know
what's going on. And the cops are coming, Kate. The only reason they're not here already is the time it's taking to get arrest warrants.

“Look.” He reached out, put an index finger under her chin, and tilted her face up toward his. “I'm only telling you the facts. What you do with them is your business.”

Kate's eyes bounced around the yard and sky, her brain spinning like a rat's exercise wheel. “What if the police clear me?”

His voice was calm. “They won't if they find Scott.”

“You mean . . .”

“You can come back if you're cleared, Kate. I'd be wrong to say anything else. But there has to be
nothing
linking you with Patricia's death. Do you understand, Kate? Do you
understand
what I'm saying?”

Kate wiped at tears with her fingertips. Her pupils focused into pinpoints. “Tell me this. Where is this Click person supposed to be? Where is this person who you say killed Patricia?”

Charles Hunter leaned back in his chair and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean. “He's staying in the Beckers' house out on Gull Way.”

“What if I—”

He held up a palm to stop her. “I've said too much already. Now, go.”

Scott wandered over the sandy island road in a general northerly direction. The perfume of approaching spring, mixed with the scents of salt and sea, filled his lungs. The sun warmed his shoulders; he pulled off his windbreaker and tied it around his waist like a kid in school.

The island wasn't the flat mix of sand and sea grass, briars and twisted pines he'd seen on Florida's barrier islands. This place seemed older—not because of any structure but because of the stones and trees, the rough beaches and outcroppings of rock. The road rose up before him, and Scott worked up a light sweat getting to the top of the hill overlooking the village.

Up ahead a hundred yards or so was where he'd seen his brother, standing alone in the storm and talking about knowing where
he
was. Who the hell was
he
?

The road here was rough—a smooth finish waiting on more development on this end of the island. Scott's eyes scanned the dusty roadway, searching for an easy path among the washouts and fist-size stones that pocked and pebbled his path.

The spot came and went, and Bobby did not appear. Minutes passed with nothing but the twin ruts of the road to show humans had ever been on this part of the island. Then he saw it. A small stone house squatted in a dip between two dunes. Scraggy rocks, the same color as those naturally poking out into the Atlantic, had been stacked into an old-fashioned, New England–style stone wall surrounding the property.

Scott's heart beat faster. He told himself that it was only a house, and a nice house at that. The kind of place he could be comfortable. The kind of place . . . He rounded a turn, the far side of the house came into view, and Scott felt reality melting away. Parked on the shell drive was his Land Cruiser—the same Land Cruiser he'd left in Boston days before. His knees buckled.

It was a little thing, and it wasn't. The presence of his old four-by-four was the last punch in a series of blows to his life, to his privacy, maybe even to his view of what the world was supposed to be.

Scott stopped to catch his breath. He put his hands on his knees and looked down at the ground. When he looked back up, all sense of being violated and overwhelmed morphed into pure white anger. Someone was in that house who had messed in his life. Someone who had taken a lot of things that were his—not physical things, but things he had built through hard work, determination, and, too often, endless hours of loneliness.

A figure moved at one of the windows, and Scott began walking toward the front door.

CHAPTER 46

Bobby Thomas stepped out of a heavy front door and said one word. “Stop.”

Scott kept walking.

Bobby's scarred features never changed expression. “I said stop.”

Scott walked until he was within three feet of his brother. “Whose house is this?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me. And it matters to you, too, or you'd tell me.”

“Some people named Becker. They're gone off somewhere else. Don't even know I'm here.”

“Okay.” Scott pointed to the driveway. “Then who stole my Land Cruiser?”

“Nobody. I drove it. I'm your brother.”

It was almost a touching statement. Almost. Scott's eyes searched the man's melted features. He looked for something familiar in those dark eyes. “I know who you are. How'd you get the car over here on the island?”

Bobby just shrugged. “You should leave.” He paused, then added, “I'm trying to do you a favor.”

“Would you leave if you were me?” Scott waited for an answer but got none. He glanced over Bobby's shoulder. “Click's not dead, is he?”

The younger Thomas seemed almost ready to smile, the effort made his left eyelid spasm. Again, he shrugged.

“Why the act in Virginia?”

“I wanted you to know that Click wouldn't bother you anymore.” Then he added, “You're my brother,” as if that explained everything.

Scott shook his head. “If he's not dead . . . He's inside the house, isn't he?” Again there was no response. He pushed ahead. “What about his hand? You said you had Click's hand in the trunk. What would you have done if I'd wanted it for fingerprints, the way you said?”

Bobby sighed. His jaw tightened, his right hand formed a fist, and the thick muscles in both shoulders bunched. Then, just as quickly, he seemed to change his mind about something and relax. Finally, he said, “That's not you. People like you and that Natalie girl don't want to see cut-off hands.”

“So you didn't . . .”

He shook his head.

“But Click
was
in your trunk.”

Bobby nodded. “He was gonna kill you. And the girl.”

“And you thought offering up a chopped-off hand would make me feel better.”

Bobby looked again as though he might actually smile. “It's funny when you say it like that.”

“Who killed Peter Budzik?”

“Who?”

“Budzik. The bald hacker who lived in the warehouse in Boston. That first time you ran off Click, I went upstairs and found Budzik with his throat cut.”

Bobby looked bored. “Wasn't me. That Click was up there before you came. I didn't follow him in.”

Scott examined the shiny, scarred face, trying with every skill he'd developed as an analyst to determine if his brother was telling the truth, but all the usual minutia of expression and nonverbal communication had been burned away years ago. “Can you tell me—”

“That girl okay?”

It took Scott a few seconds to figure out that Bobby was asking about Cindy Travers, Budzik's abused girlfriend. “The girl Click beat up?”

Bobby nodded.

“I hope so. I called an ambulance.” He paused. “She's pretty screwed up.”

“Everybody's screwed up.” Bobby shrugged. “Anyway, you need to leave. At six o'clock tonight, Click and Kate are going to be here.” He hesitated. “I don't know whether to tell you this, or how to say it. But they're coming here for me to kill them.”

Scott's heart popped hard against his sternum. He tried to sound calm. “They sound like unusually cooperative people.”

The scarred young man made a gurgling sound deep in his chest that was supposed to be laughter. “Funny.”

“Thanks a lot, but . . .”

“Leave here now and it'll all be over tonight. You'll be clear. I made a deal.”

“A deal with whom?” Scott looked down at the stone walkway.

“With
whom
?” He made a gurgling chuckle. “I slipped away from Click last night a few hours after we got to the island. Then”—he chuckled—“surprise. While I was watching, the man who set up all this came to see him.”

“Who?”

Bobby shook his head. “The man who worked everybody around so the Hunter woman would get murdered. Smart guy. Knows how to handle people. I walked in on him and Click. Had a talk. Pulled him outside for some privacy and got offered a deal.”

“And this unnamed man just told you everything you wanted to know.”

A thin grin spread across his face. “I had Click explain my . . . my motivations to him. Then I just had to hurt the guy a little, and he hollered like a cat bird.”

Scott looked hard into Bobby's black eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged. “What?”

“Putting yourself at risk? Locking Click in your trunk? Threatening some guy who you claim set me up for Patricia Hunter's murder?”

“I like it. I like . . . handling people.” He paused. “And I like hurting people who need it.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“You're my brother.”

Scott examined his sibling's melted face. “It's that simple?”

“Everything's simple.”

Scott turned to look off down the road. “Is this guy you made a deal with the ‘him' you mentioned last night? What happened since last night when you were standing up there on the road? You said last night that you'd take us to ‘him,' whoever the hell ‘he' is.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Hell, yes, you did.” Scott pointed over his shoulder. “Standing right back there on the road. You said, ‘I know where he is,' and something like you'd take us to him.”

“Wasn't me.” Bobby paused for three beats and made the gurgling sound again. “Just fuckin' with you. See, I'm funny, too. Now.” Bobby squared off in front of his brother. “You need to leave. I don't want to hurt you, but I will.” He paused. “Now go.”

Scott breathed deeply. He wanted to lash out. But what he wanted wouldn't help him or Natalie. So he turned and walked to the edge of the yard before turning back. “What if I call the cops?”

Bobby shrugged. It was his most consistent communication. All he said was “Call 'em.”

“Or I could go see Charles Hunter. He's got security people here on the island.”

Bobby froze and a veil seemed to drop over his waxy features.

“It's Hunter, isn't it?” Pieces of the puzzle that had never fit started to fall into place inside Scott's head. “You made a deal with Hunter.”

Bobby didn't answer. He turned and walked back through the front door. The door shut, and Scott heard a dead bolt slide home.

The older Thomas brother stood at the stone wall for a long time and watched the house. When he couldn't think of anything useful to do there, he turned and started back to town. As he mounted the hill overlooking the town square, Scott saw a convertible Jeep heading toward him. He stepped aside as the tires skidded to a stop.

Captain Frank, the man who'd met Natalie and him on the mainland and brought them out to the island, jumped from the driver's seat. “Nothing serious, sir. But the lady's been in a minor accident.”

“Natalie? Are you telling me that Natalie's hurt?”

“Like I said, nothing major. But she would like to see you.” The bearded captain pointed at the Jeep. “Hop in. I'll have you there in nothing flat.”

The doors had been removed. Scott jumped onto the passenger seat, the captain swung in beside him, and they roared off together down the hill. Scott was so upset that he didn't notice that the Jeep wasn't heading toward the medical offices in town or toward their guest cottage. No. Scott was less than a quarter mile from Charles Hunter's house when he figured out where he was.

He raised his voice over the wind and engine noise. “Why are we going to Mr. Hunter's house?” Captain Frank's eyes were glazed over. It was a question he didn't want to answer. Scott saw two security guards in the driveway ahead, and he grabbed the edge of his door. “Answer me!”

The bearded man turned. “It's where she is. That's all I know.” His eyes moved to check out Scott's grip on the door frame. “You jump and there's just gonna be two of you hurt. What're you gonna do, leave her there alone? Asking for you?”

By that time, the Jeep was only yards from the driveway. Frank braked, and Scott sprang from the passenger door. He stumbled; the sandy ground came up faster than he'd expected and knocked the wind out of him—a horrible punch in the gut, followed by uncoordinated somersaults through rocks and gravel and jagged seashells.

A basketball-size boulder pounded his right knee just as he got his feet under him. A jolt of pain shot through his leg, and he started to run. But start was all. The two big men in guard uniforms blocked his path. Each carried a sidearm, and each had placed a cautionary hand on the grip of his pistol.

Scott turned to see Captain Frank blocking his path from the rear.

One of the security guards spoke first. “Stop! Stop right there, Mr. Thomas. Nobody's going to hurt you. Your friend Ms. Friedman is inside.” The guard held one hand in the air, palm down, and made an up-and-down “be calm” motion. His other hand, though, never left the grip of his handgun.

Scott stopped and bent over to catch his breath. “Okay.”

The quieter of the two guards unhooked handcuffs from his utility belt and moved toward Scott. Scott held out his hand now. “Forget it. You aren't putting those on me.”

Scott heard fast footsteps behind him. He dropped onto one hand and swept his leg behind him. His shin caught Captain Frank across the instep and sent the bearded man hurling into sand and gravel. Before Frank had stopped rolling, Scott was on his feet and backing away from the guards.

A deep voice came from the yard. “That's not necessary.”

The guard with the cuffs turned to look at Charles Hunter. “But, sir. He's already tried to run away. And look what he did to the captain.”

Hunter turned to Scott. “Will you come inside without the cuffs?”

“I really don't have a hell of a lot of choice, do I?”

“No.” Hunter shook his head. “You really don't.”

Scott shrugged, and the realization hit that his dismissive gesture was a mirror image of his brother's favorite communication. “Lead the way.”

Natalie sat on a soft leather sofa beneath the vaulted ceiling of Hunter's living room. She didn't look hurt or frightened or overwhelmed. She looked furious.

As Scott stepped into the room with Hunter, Natalie said Scott's name then stood to walk to him.

Hunter hesitated in the doorway. “Sit down, Ms. Friedman.”

Natalie never missed a step. “Fuck you, Mr. Hunter.” She walked up to Scott, put her arms around his neck, and asked, “Are you all right?”

Scott hugged her, then leaned back to look into her face. “They said you were hurt.”

Natalie shook her head. “Jeez. Bunch of idiots told me the same thing about you.” She turned to Hunter. “Too much of a strain to make up two stories?”

“You're both here, aren't you?”

As Natalie and Hunter glared at each other, Scott scanned the room. He listened hard for other human sounds in the house. They seemed to be alone. He guided Natalie back to the sofa, where he and she sat down. Scott looked at Hunter. “I have some questions.”

Hunter came farther into the room. “I would, too, in your position. But the answers are going to be a while coming, I'm afraid.”

Scott leaned back against leather cushions. “I didn't kill your wife, Mr. Hunter.”

The architect remained impassive.

Scott tried again. “What do you want?”

Again the older man didn't answer.

Scott felt anger boil up inside. “We're trying to be civilized and discuss this with you. And you're playing at being some kind of tough guy.” He sat forward. “If I wanted to, I could break your back before those guards could get through the door. I'm not doing it, but I could.”

Hunter walked to the bar and plinked ice cubes into a crystal glass. As he covered the ice with scotch, he said, “I know all about your wrestling days, Scott. I used to be a pretty good lacrosse player myself. But I've got twenty years on you, so . . .” He cocked his head to one side. “I guess you could hurt me pretty badly if you decided to do that.” Hunter took in a mouthful of scotch. “But you won't. First of all, Scott, you're an intellectual, not a thug like your brother. And, second, if you hurt me . . .” He cocked his head to the side again. It was his version of a thoughtful shrug. “Well, if you were that foolish, you and Ms. Friedman might find the remainders of your lives brief and depressingly uncomfortable.”

Natalie spoke up. “This is kidnapping. You can't keep something like this quiet.”

Hunter crossed to a club chair and sat down. “I have no intention of keeping anything quiet.” He raised his glass to Scott. “Your boyfriend here is the prime suspect in the murder of my wife. You.” He turned to Natalie. “You're the woman who helped a wanted man escape from the hospital by—and correct me if this isn't true—but I understand you two were halfway to knocking bottoms when the cops busted in.”

Scott leaned forward. “There are things short of a broken back. Things that wouldn't bother an intellectual like me in the least.”

Hunter chuckled. “Okay, okay. Sorry if I offended the lady's dignity. Anyway, the cops also know the two of you were there when Phil Reynolds was gunned down.” He grinned. “Hell, all I've done is capture two criminals who've come here to do me harm and then call the cops.”

“You've called the cops?”

He closed one eye. “Not quite yet.”

Natalie patted Scott's leg and leaned over to kiss him. As her lips brushed his cheek, she whispered, “I'm scared.”