James Patterson - The Beach House

He worked his way through the resplendent crowd to the rear doors of the house. As soon as Montrose stepped outside, Fenton hopped off the black cast-iron bench beside the driveway and unhooked key number 115 from the board.

Montrose was still fishing for his half of the parking chit as Gidley approached.

"No worries, sir," he told him. "Green Jag, right?"

Montrose winked. "You're good."

"I try, sir."

Gidley hustled back to where he'd parked the Jag only hours before. Whistling the old Johnny Carson show theme, he slid behind the walnut wheel and drove it off the lawn to the front of the house.

"Lovely car," he told Montrose as he climbed out and accepted his five-buck tip. "Have a terrific night."

Relieved to be out of there at last, Montrose yanked off his Hermes silk tie. He punched in a number on his car phone. After a short delay of gentle ringing, the voice of his assistant, Laura Richardson, poured from the speaker.

"Who is it?"

"Laura, it's me," he said. "I'm leaving the Neubauers' right now. Believe me, you didn't miss a fucking thing."

"Bullshit, Monty. You're a bad liar, especially for a professional. Everybody was there, right?"

"Well, I did stand next to Morgan Freeman."

"Don't tell me. He's five-six and smells funny."

"Six-three and fragrant."

"Anyone else?"

"No one you'd know. Listen, Laura, I can't make it tonight."

"Big surprise, Monty. What now?"

"In terms of the divorce settlement and the custody and everything, it's going to look real bad if I'm gone this weekend."

"You mean it's going to look really bad if they find out you've been screwing your black assistant for three years."

Montrose held back a yawn. "Laura, do we really have to do this now?"

"Nope," said Richardson. "You're still the boss."

"Thanks," said Montrose, "because I can't tell you how shot I feel."

When he heard the click, he slapped the dashboard in a rage. "Don't you dare hang up on me!" he yelled. "I don't need this shit."

I took that as my cue to pull off the blanket, sit up in the backseat, and press the barrel of a gun to his neck.

"I guess this isn't your night, Monty," I said when our eyes met in the mirror.

I GAVE MONTROSE ONLY a couple of seconds to get over the shock. Then I jabbed the barrel of the pistol into his neck one more time. It felt good.

"Turn right at the stop sign," I instructed. "Do exactly as I say, Monty."

He slowed to take the turn and met my eyes in the mirror. It was amazing how quickly he'd managed to wipe the panic from his face and realign his Big Man in the Big World mask. In thirty seconds he'd convinced himself that everything was still essentially under control.

"You realize what you've just done is a kidnapping, or could be construed as such. What the hell do you think you're doing, Jack?"

"Take a left," I said.

Montrose obediently turned onto Further Lane, the moon pursuing us through the branches of the colossal overhanging elms. Amazingly his confidence was growing. It was almost as if he were back in his long, black-windowed office and all he had to do was push a little buzzer for Laura Richardson to trot in with Security.

"I offered you a view of half of Manhattan," he reminded me. "You screwed everything up. You just don't get it, Mullen."

"You're absolutely right, Monty. I remember it well." I pulled the gun away from his neck, stuck it in his ear, and pulled back the trigger until the hammer caught with a click.

"It's a nasty old gun. If I were you, I'd concentrate all my energy on avoiding potholes. Make a right."

Montrose flinched and squeaked, and when I looked in the mirror, he had transformed again.

"Another left," I said, and we turned toward the water, onto DeForest Lane.

"The third driveway on the right."

He dutifully turned the car into the driveway of a low-slung cottage and parked. I gave him a blindfold and told him to tie it himself. His hands trembled about as badly as Jane Davis's had at the inquest.

"Nice and tight," I said. "I want this to be a surprise."

I walked him into the house, spun him around a few times in the kitchen, and took him out back to a raised redbrick patio. Just beyond it, a tall, vintage milk truck was parked on the grass.

I opened the back door of the truck and shoved Montrose in with the three other bound, blindfolded hostages. One was Tricia Powell, a star at my brother's inquest; the other two were Tom and Stella Fitzharding, the Neubauers' very best friends.

I slammed the milk-truck door, leaving the four of them completely in the dark.

I GOT BACK INTO MONTROSE'S SEDAN, slid back the seat, and readjusted the rearview mirror. I imagined how he must have felt when he looked into it and saw my face. Glad you're enjoying yourself, Jack.

I drove Monty's Jag along the back roads until I saw the gates of the Beach House gleaming through the rain-soaked windshield. I lowered the window to inform the gatekeeper that I was picking up a guest. He'd already figured as much and waved me through.

A quarter of a mile short of the house, I turned off the drive and disappeared behind some hedges. I made my way to the field where the car had originally been parked. I backed it into its old space and dropped the keys under the front seat.

There was only one car left in the field. Leaning against it was Fenton. When I got out of the Jag, he clapped me on the shoulder and looked me in the eye.

"It's showtime, Jack," he said. "You ready?"

"Close enough. At least it's a good cause."

"The best."

Fenton slipped out of his red parking jacket. I put it on along with a black baseball cap. I pulled the hat low on my brow, then hurried to the service kitchen, where a swarm of workers were helping themselves to leftover nouvelle cuisine. The room was full of people I'd known since grade school. But in the feeding frenzy no one looked up as I passed through.

Without stopping, I hurried down a dark hallway and up a stairwell to another long corridor, off which were half a dozen well-appointed guest bedrooms.

Dana may never have been my girl, but for almost a year I was definitely her boy. During family functions we'd sometimes slip away to one of those guest rooms. I ran to the end of the hallway and pulled down an aluminum ladder from a trapdoor in the ceiling.

Then I climbed into the attic and pulled up the ladder.

There was a stack of extra mattresses in the corner. I settled down on one, with my backpack as a pillow. I set my watch for 3:15 and tried to get some sleep.

I was going to need it.

YOU COULDN'T HAVE CREATED a less suspicious scene if you tried. Barely had the sun peeked above the horizon when an old-fashioned, top-heavy milk truck puttered down a gorgeous country lane. It was an image sweetly evocative of an America long gone.

Every half mile or so, the truck would turn into a driveway and roll up to another expensive house. As the motor idled peacefully, Hank hopped out in his blue overalls with the white patch of the East Hampton Dairy sewn on one shoulder. He crossed the dewy grass and went round to the back. He fetched the empties from the tin container by the kitchen door, then returned with three or four cool, perspiring bottles.

The whole thing was a homogenized joke, of course. At the end of the week, nearly every drop of milk got poured down the drain.

But there was something about the waxed cardboard origami caps and the widemouthed glass bottles with the etching of a cow on the face of each bottle that made the elite clientele feel as down-home as Iowa farmers.

For the next hour the milk truck slowly made its appointed rounds. As it dropped off precious lactic fluid all along the East Hampton shore, it barely kept up with a Rhodesian Ridgeback out for its morning romp.