Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

“Boat?” she asked, pointing.

“House, I imagine. On some small island.”

“Wish I were there.”

“Me, too.” Lovejoy shut his eyes and savored the fantasy. “Alone with the parrots and the palm trees, cut off from everything.”

“Sounds like paradise.”

“My estimation also. I envy them-whoever’s on that island. They don’t have to deal with any of this.” He sighed. “They don’t have a worry in the world.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and looked across the living room at the high-backed chair where Steve sat rigid, the Beretta held stiffly in his hand.

The blued barrel gleamed in the lamplight. The room blazed, every bulb burning. Steve had insisted on that. He wished, apparently, to banish all shadows. He had not yet learned that some kinds of darkness could not be dispelled.

“You planning to stay up all night?” Jack asked, then instantly regretted it. The question was too obvious.

Steve smiled briefly. “Yes, Jack. I am.”

“We’ll need to be fresh in the morning.”

“You sleep, then.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Neither am I.”

“We’ve got to trust each other, Stevie.”

A soft, derisive snort. “Oh, sure. You’re a real trustworthy individual.”

Another interval of silence stretched between them. Outside, a boat purred past, one of many that had slipped through the night during the last three hours, reminders that Pelican Key was less isolated than it seemed.

When the boat was gone, there was nothing to hear but the crickets’ monotonous chirping and, from the woods, rare spurts of birdsong. Though Jack was no naturalist, he had spent enough summer days on the island to recognize the peppery trills of a yellow-breasted chat and, farther off, the long, rising glissando of a parula.

He had always liked bird calls. It had taken him years to understand that the shrill, warbling cries reminded him of screams.

Reaching over to the end table, he took a last sip of his Coke, which had long ago gone flat. It was the third can he had drained.

The day’s heat had not let up, and the humidity had actually increased with the approach of midnight. A warm paste of sweat bonded his shirt to his chest and back. Now and then a stray droplet rolled out of his hair and trickled down his neck like a tickling finger.

Through the patio doorway, a hot, sticky breeze carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine into the room, a breath of perfume, exotic and enticing. Jack thought of the woman he had killed in San Diego; she had worn a fragrance like that.

A good kill, San Diego, but not as good as what was waiting for him in the radio room, if only he could find some opportunity to make his move.

So far there had been no opportunities. Hell, he didn’t even have his Swiss Army knife anymore. Steve had compelled him to stow it in a kitchen drawer. The blade had still been wet with Anastasia’s blood.

Killing the dog had been a mistake, he decided. Or maybe his real error had been to get carried away when he’d slapped Kirstie around.

For one reason or another, Steve looked at him differently now. And he never stopped looking, never showed the slightest inclination to drop his guard. That cold gray gaze remained fixed on him, as did the muzzle of the gun.

Should have been a hypnotist, Jack thought moodily. Then I could have put the bastard in a trance, lulled him to sleep. A smooth patter, soothing words-that’s all it takes if you know the technique. Like those New Age relaxation tapes Sheila uses. Better than sleeping pills, she always says…

Sleeping pills.

Jesus, how could he have forgotten about that?

Steve had given him six pills. He’d fed one to Kirstie, who had spat it out.

The others…

Lightly, inconspicuously, he touched his pants pocket.

The others had gone in there.

Five capsules. More than twice the maximum dose. Easily enough medicine to put Steve under.

Jack sat silently for a few minutes longer, working out the details of his plan.

Then he rose and stretched. “Captain, the first mate requests permission to use the head.”

Steve got up. “I'm coming with you.”

“Oh, fuck, Stevie. Not when I'm taking a crap.” He showed a sheepish smile. “I don’t even know if I can do it with somebody watching.”

Steve hesitated, then yielded. “You can go in alone. But I’ll be right outside.”

“Great. My bodyguard.”

They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the bathroom. Jack reached for the door.

“Wait.” Steve switched on the lights and went in first. Briskly he checked the drawers, the medicine cabinet, the storage area under the sink. “Okay.”

“You afraid I stashed an Uzi behind the commode or something?”

“Just being careful.”

“Paranoid, you mean.”

“Around you, a little paranoia may be justified.”

Alone, with the door shut, Jack felt safe and secretive. The bathroom was a private place, a refuge, where he could work his mischief unobserved.

Quickly he checked the medicine cabinet, hoping to find the rest of the sleeping pills. There were none. No surprise. Steve had said his insomnia was a secret; he’d kept the pills hidden from his wife. Well, five would be sufficient.

Jack took apart the capsules, pouring their contents into an unfolded Kleenex. A small heap of white powder formed. The tissue, neatly folded, went into his pocket, along with the empty gelatin casings. He would need those.

He removed the paper shade from a light fixture over the sink, then wrapped the bulb in bathroom tissue, being careful to wind the wrapping loosely so it would not ignite too soon.

He replaced the shade. In a carrying case on the counter he found an assortment of Kirstie’s toiletries. He dug out a jar of nail-polish remover, then brushed the liquid liberally over the wall near the lamp, painting a diagonal trail that snaked down to a wastebasket. More toilet paper went into the basket, doused with the remaining alcohol in the jar.

A flush of the toilet for realism, and he stepped out into the hall. “Nothing like a successful dump to make Jack Dance a new man.”

“You’ll never be a new man, Jack. You’re stuck with yourself.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They left together. Steve, still wary of shadows, did not turn off the bathroom lights.

In the living room, Jack shook his empty Coke can. “I’m up for another. How about you?”

“All right.”

Steve watched as Jack retrieved two more cans from the fridge and popped the tabs. They resumed sitting, Jack on the sofa, Steve in the armchair, a precise recreation of the original tableau. The only variation in detail was Steve’s nylon jacket, which he had finally shed and draped over the back of the chair. His short-sleeve shirt was as limp and sweat-soaked as Jack’s own.

A fly buzzed erratically around the room, alighting on the mantel, the globe, the arched window framing the garden. Its wings glittered.

Jack wondered how things were progressing in the bathroom. The toilet paper wrapped around the hot bulb must be smoldering nicely by now. How long would it take to flare up? How quickly would the flames spread, first to the lamp’s paper shade, then to the trail of flammable liquid on the wall?

Not much longer, he figured. Another minute at most.

“Something occurred to me while you were in the bathroom.” Steven sipped his soda. “Your boat. The little inflatable.”

“What about it?”

“When Kirstie came in from the reef, she left it at the dock, alongside the motorboat. Pice will see it when he shows up tomorrow. He’ll know there’s someone on the island besides Kirstie and me. We’ll lose the element of surprise.”