Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

Close by now, the seaplane’s engines groaned in bursts. The aircraft had landed and was taxiing. Its engines finally wound down and fell silent. Larson had seen a long dock off the crescent beach and believed the seaplane likely had tied up there.

At that instant, a golf cart’s dim headlights broke the darkness of the lane. The vehicle motored silently up to the front of The Sand Dollar and a college kid climbed out and carried a tray up the front stairs. Larson heard the bell chime through the walls and waited first for the sound of feet approaching. A man’s back appeared, heading away from Larson down a peach and turquoise hallway toward the front door.

With the man’s back to him, Larson stepped around the luggage to the kitchen door and tried the knob. It turned. He pushed through and stepped inside, working to shut the door soundlessly behind himself.

Two careful steps took him deeper into the kitchen and away from any line of sight from the front door.

He connected the seaplane to the packed bags out on the porch. Markowitz’s handlers were moving him.

He slipped quietly into a small dining room. A large mirror was centered on the longest wall and held in a seashell frame. In the mirror’s reflection, Larson saw the man at the door in profile as he tipped the college kid, accepted the tray of food, and then, closing the door, set the tray on the floor. He turned away from it, showing no intention of eating it.

Larson heard the man’s quick ascent of the stairs and his arrival on the second floor. “Get it done!” the man hollered. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”

“It’s on its way now,” came another man’s strong voice. Older perhaps. Defiant. “It’s a large file. Several minutes at least. Just pack or whatever. Don’t rush me.”

Markowitz .

“They’re here now!” the younger voice said. “Just landed. They’ll be down here any minute to pick up our stuff. Hurry it up!”

“I said it’s on its way!” the old man replied. “There’s nothing I can do about transmission speed.”

Larson heard the distinctive clicking of furious typing at a keyboard. It’s on its way . Was that Laena he referred to? Transmission speed . Where, and to whom?

Seeing no other choice but to make his move, Larson withdrew his weapon and rounded the corner into the hallway. He slipped past the smells of a fish dinner and edged toward the staircase that rose to the second floor.

He took his first tentative step, his weapon aimed straight up the tunnel toward the two- possibly three -arguing men, heard but not yet seen.

Tommy Tomelson let himself into the hotel room with his own electronic key card. He was sweating, a sour, bitter odor coming from him, as he turned and both locked and barred the door. He clutched a maid’s black-and-white uniform under his left arm. Extending the dress to her, he instructed, “Put this on. And hurry!”

She stepped toward the bathroom, but Tomelson blocked her advance with an outstretched arm.

“No need to undress,” he said. “Besides, I don’t want you trapped in there.” He pointed first to the drawn blinds, then to the door behind him. “Windows and the door. Quick egress.” He turned his back to give her privacy, facing the door. “Keep your clothes on. Just get the dress on over them.”

“What’s the hurry?”

Tomelson’s eyes said it all.

“Someone’s here?”

“A guy at the front desk asked some questions,” he told her. “No idea how he found us so fast.”

Hope glanced back at the television. For the past forty-five minutes she’d been agonizing over what to do. Before running she wanted Larson back. She wanted Miller to call with more information about the e-mail Markowitz had mentioned.

Tomelson said, “I’m not taking any chances.”

She considered explaining what she’d done but ate her words. She tried to pull her pants up on her calves, but it was no use; the pant legs would stick out from beneath the dress. She inspected the garment, unzipped it, and pulled it on over her head. The top of the dress hid her shirt, but its skirt, with a mock apron sewn in place, stopped at her knees. She reached up under the dress and, kicking off her shoes, unfastened her pants and slipped them off, stepping out of them.

Tomelson located a hotel laundry bag in the closet and handed it to her. She put the pants into this bag.

There was music playing somewhere nearby. Children’s voices shouting, “Trick or treat!” Only a few days ago she and Penny had had such plans for this evening. That recollection overpowered her.

“The shoes are wrong,” she said, looking down.

Brown slip-ons with a black uniform.

Tomelson didn’t dignify that with a comment. Instead, he said, “You’ll go calmly down the hall. Use the stairs. You’ll leave out the back of the hotel, by the putting green. Head down the bike path. It’s crazy out there because of Halloween. Find someplace nice and public. When you do, call me.”

He scratched out a phone number, tore off the corner of the magazine he’d written it on, and passed it to her. His hand was shaking, either from alcohol or nerves.

Hope pocketed the number in the front of her maid’s apron.

Behind Tomelson, the door kicked in and she felt the thunder of shots fired.

Hope dived to the floor, so dizzy with fear she couldn’t see.

Larson was halfway up the stairs when all the shouting stopped. The sudden change froze him. He became acutely aware of the big-breasted white-porcelain mermaid figurine on a small table at the top of the stairs. She seemed to be looking right at him. Laughing.

Then, ever so slightly, the mermaid rocked side to side, a nearly imperceptible movement. The flooring had moved; and with it, the table; and with it, the figurine. Someone up there was moving toward the stairs.

All these realizations collided in Larson at the same instant, combining to loosen his knees and move the barrel of his Glock slightly to his left. He crouched and raised the weapon. A man appeared at the top of the stairs, already firing.

Larson squeezed off two shots and then intentionally slipped his toes off the stair tread, sliding backward and down the stairs toward cover. White plaster from exploding Sheetrock filled the air like smoke and fell like snow. Larson’s third shot, aimed at the belly, took away most of the man’s knee, and spun him around like a dancer. Hit, the man fired off three more rounds, lost to the walls.

Larson reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped moving. His arm steady, he fired again, but the man was turned, his profile reduced. The porcelain figurine erupted off the table into a thousand floating shards.

A splash of flesh erupted out of the shooter’s back. He buckled forward and collapsed. Then the top stair splintered, as did the fifth stair down.

Larson had not fired either of those shots. Montgomery had given him the wrong head count.

A younger man appeared at the top of the stairs, a black semiautomatic gripped in both hands, arms extended. Eyes squinted nearly shut. Early, early twenties, still with bad acne. Freckles. Reddish hair. He looked like an altar boy, not a killer. Fired a gun like one as well. He’d shot the other one-accidentally, no doubt-while wildly running through a full magazine. His shots continued down the stairs, wood and carpet jumping, debris flying.

Larson dropped him with single round, a gut-shot that staggered him back and pushed him to sitting against the wall by the table where the figurine had been. He stared straight ahead as he slumped to the side and fell still.

Larson moved into the downstairs hall for cover.