Джон Макдональд - The Last One Left

“How can I let you go?” she whispered.

“There has to be...”

“Hush, my dear. Could we be — very cruel and very sly? Is it worth taking an awful risk, and doing a terrible thing — to stay together?”

She felt his heart accelerate, striking more solidly against the wall of his chest. “What kind of a risk?”

“I would have to see him. Maybe let him come here, or go to him. I would have to — pretend to be glad he came back. I might even have to — let him have me. Could you endure that? Could you still love me after that?”

“You know I could.”

“I think it would make me ill, after you. Physically, desperately ill. Darling, I’d try not to let it happen.”

“What are you thinking we could do?”

“I know that it must bother him to have lost that boat and those people and his wife. Oh, not the way it would bother most people. He’ll just be worrying about how it might keep him from getting a good job again. He wouldn’t feel any guilt, not really. He’d pretend to, but he wouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see, dear? It would look kind of — logical if he killed himself.” Suddenly his heart was much faster.

“If... it looked as if he killed himself.”

“Yes. Are we — strong enough?”

“He doesn’t deserve to be alive.”

She hitched upward, held him, put her face in the side of his throat, let out a long shivering breath. “We might be able to — find the right chance real soon. Or we might have to wait, Olly. We’ll have to plan the best way to do it. The safest way, and be very clever and not leave any clues, and not let anyone see us at all. I’m scared, darling, thinking about it.”

He hugged her close. “We’d be crazy not to be scared.”

“It’s the only way I’ll be free. It’s the only way I can be yours.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to — do it together. Help each other do it. Then we’ll really belong to each other forever and ever. It’s something we have to share. Do you understand?”

“I... yes. Yes.”

“If it goes wrong — they might take us away and kill us, Oliver.”

“I’d rather be dead than lose you.”

“You really mean that, don’t you, darling?”

He rolled to his side, so that he could hold her there against him. “Don’t cry, Crissy. Don’t cry. We’ll do it. Nobody will ever know. You’ll see. It’s all we can do. It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

“I have to say the word, dear. It’s — murder. You know that, don’t you? Murder.”

“Don’t be scared. Please don’t be scared.”

“Not when I’m with you. I love you, Olly. So much. So much.”

In a little while, in the strong circle of his brown arms she moved slightly, changed her position, sighed, slowly lifted her right leg and hooked it around him, her thigh heavy on his waist.

“I’m terrible,” she whispered. “So soon, dear. So soon. Thinking of what — we’re going to do to him seems to get me excited. That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Too soon for you?” she whispered, as she reached for him. She touched the hollow of his throat with her tongue tip. “You too,” she breathed. “You too, lovely lovely boy. No, dear. Just lie still. Lie very still. Leave it all this time to your Crissy, to your woman. She’ll make it so delicious for you.”

As she began, she wished she could get that damned mink wrap out of her mind. It was so silly to get mad about it again after all these years. That screwball Polski. The boss girl had warned the Polski about other things she pulled. And that time the Polski disappeared. Crissy had heard, over a year later, that the boss girl had turned the Polski over to the Snowman for one of his lessons in manners and she had then been sent west for the export trade. But it sure God didn’t grow any fur back on those mink skins.

On Friday afternoon, Staniker walked slowly down the steps from the Bahama Airways plane to the cement apron, holding onto the railing. His weakness made him feel slightly chilled in the sun heat of the Miami Airport, and made him aware of the small frictions of the clothing against his body. He felt the pull of the tender, healing skin on his right knee as he took each step, but there was little pain. McGregory had been pleased with how quickly he had healed.

The insurance company had advanced the money for the inexpensive clothing and toilet articles Nurse Chappie had purchased for him. He carried a small flight bag, blue and white. He had cleared U.S. Customs at Windsor Field on departure.

As he walked with the tourist passengers into the terminal he watched for reporters and photographers, but there were none. It was understandable. He had made it clear even before leaving the hospital that he had signed up with Banner Enterprises. And the story was old now. The Muñeca had been on the bottom in the endless silence and blackness for twenty-one days. And though he knew it was the last place she would be, he looked for Crissy.

“Captain? Captain Staniker?” A little man trotted up, beaming. He held his hand out. “Wezler. Hal Wezler. Banner Enterprises. All ready to go to work, Captain?” He had swift dark eyes, a ferret face, black hair, tie, suit and shoes, snow white shirt, gold accessories, a smile that came and went as swiftly as a facial tic. “Let’s find a saloon and get acquainted and I’ll tell you how we’re going to work it.”

They sat at a small table in a cocktail lounge. Wezler turned over the pale blue check for twelve hundred and fifty dollars. He talked so rapidly Staniker had trouble following him. Apparently time was very important. Wezler had taken a small suite. They would hole up there. Wezler used a tape recorder. He said he wanted a million words on tape. He’d fly back out to the coast and turn all that tape into a book. Everybody was very turned on about it, he said. Marty, whoever that was, was setting up the tie-ins. They were shooting for hard cover, magazine serialization, soft cover, book club and a movie deal. It was going to make everybody very rich. Marty was even thinking of setting up some kind of serial television project. But they had to get winging right now. These things cool off. So how about heading for the hotel right now? Great broads around the pool. Take a break once in a while. Ease off, have some laughs, then back to the old Ampex.

“Not right away,” Staniker said.

“What do you mean?”

“I have personal things to do, Wezler. And I need rest. I have to get my strength back.”

“Marty isn’t going to like this a bit, Staniker.”

“Too bad.”

“If it turns him off he might cut the whole deal down to practically nothing. You’re signed on percentage. You’d lose a pot.”

“So I’d lose a pot.”

Wezler studied him. “So I’ll see if I can con him a little on the phone. Only you got to tell me when, so I have something solid to go on.”

“A week.”

“Come on , baby!”

“A week.”

“The man says a week. Where’ll I find you, Captain?”

“I’ll phone your hotel.”

Wezler wrote the name of the hotel on the back of a business card and handed it over. “Where are you headed now? You want a lift? I got a rental out there someplace.”

Staniker accepted the ride to Parker’s Marina. Before Wezler drove off he pumped Staniker’s hand and said, “If you can make it five days, four days, you got a new friend, believe me.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Staniker said.

Parker wasn’t around. The new couple who worked there were curious about him, but when he sidestepped their questions they turned sullen and indifferent. They gave him the packet of mail which had been saved for him, and the man unlocked the storage shed so Staniker could sort through the things which had been moved out of the cottage. The heat was thick in the shed. Sweat stung his eyes as he sorted some personal clothing and belongings into two suitcases. He carried them outside, refastened the padlock, and went to where the woman was dipping up live shrimp from the bait tank for two leathery old senior citizens. He told her to tell Parker he’d get the rest of the stuff later. When she gave no sign she heard he repeated it. She turned and said, “You think I’m deef or something?”