Stuart Woods - Cold Paradise

Another cop approached. “Unauthorized photographer," he said. ”We know him. He’s a stringer for one of the tabloids.“

“Good work,” Stone said. “You had any other problems at the front door?”

“Not really. We’ve had to frisk a few people, but no problems. Nobody as tall as the guy you’re looking for. An old man in a wheelchair set off all the alarms, but he was on the guest list.”

“Wheelchair?” Stone asked. “What kind of wheelchair?”

“One of those electric jobs, almost like a scooter. He arrived in a van and had to be helped with it.”

“What’s his name?”

The cop consulted his list. “Walter Feldman.”

“Describe him.”

“White hair, kind of hunched over and frail-looking.”

Stone turned to look at Dino.

“A wheelchair is a good way not to look tall,” Dino said.

Stone lifted his left hand to his mouth. “Everybody, listen up. This is Barrington. Without leaving your stations, find a man in an electric wheelchair and report his position.” He released the talk switch. “Come on, Dino.”

They quickly checked inside the house, but did not see the man. “He must be in the gardens,” Stone said. He spoke into the microphone again. “This is Barrington. Anybody got a position on the man in the wheelchair yet?”

Nothing.

“Jesus, how hard can he be to find?” Stone asked.

Then a voice came over the radio. “Mr. Barrington, I’ve got the wheelchair.”

“Where?” Stone asked.

“At the pool, behind the hedge.”

“Describe the occupant.”

“There’s no occupant. The wheelchair is sitting empty by the pool.”

“Everybody, listen up,” Stone said. “Our subject has arrived. Locate him quickly.”

They were near the seawall, now. Dino spoke up. “Where’s the guard you put on the seawall, the bald guy?”

“Nowhere in sight,” Stone said. He arrived at the wall, walked to the stern of the yacht and looked at the water. The big security guard, Jason, was floating facedown in Lake Worth, a trickle of red coloring the water around him.

“Oh, shit,” Dino said.

Then gunfire broke out.

Stone turned around to find a mob of people rushing toward him, many of them screaming.

“Shots fired!” he said into the microphone. “Secure the bride and groom in the master suite now!” Then he and Dino did what cops always do, and other people don’t: They ran toward the gunfire.

They had trouble making headway against the onrushing crowd, but after a couple of minutes they were nearing the house. A man and woman were huddled behind a huge shrub. “On the roof!” the man yelled at Stone, pointing.

“Detail at the front of the house,” Stone said into the mike. “Subject on the roof of the house. Watch the front drainpipes and apprehend.”

“He’s not coming this way,” Dino said. “There must be a way from the roof into the house.”

“Oh, God,” Stone said. He spoke into the mike. “Bride and groom detail. Where are you?”

“On the main stairs,” a voice replied. “We’ll have them secured in a minute.”

“Oh, no,” he said to Dino, “we’ve been suckered. Let’s get up there.” They started to run. “Don’t take the bride and groom upstairs!” he said into the microphone. He raced into the house and headed for the stairs. From the bottom, he could just see the wedding party disappearing down the upstairs hallway. “Wedding group,” he said into the mike. “Stop, and come downstairs.” No one came down. He ran up the stairs.

At the top he came to a sudden halt because the stairs were blocked by the bride, the groom, several guests and four Palm Beach police officers. They were standing there, rigidly, and Stone couldn’t see past them. He stopped a few steps from the top and listened.

“Step away from the bride and groom,” a man’s deep voice said.

Manning. Stone tiptoed up the remaining stairs. Then, blocked from Manning’s view by the group above him, he clambered onto the stair handrail and grabbed the banister built around the stairwell. He was holding onto the banister’s vertical risers, trying to pull himself up, and it wasn’t working very well.

“I said, clear away from the bride and groom,” Manning’s voice commanded.

Stone could see a couple of guests peel off from the group, but the cops stood their ground.

“Listen, Mr. Manning,” a cop said. “There’s more of us than you. More firepower, too. Why don’t you-”

“If any of you touches a gun, I’ll start firing,” Manning said, “and I’ve got thirteen rounds left. The happy couple will be the first to go.”

Stone swung his legs sideways and got a toe on the landing. Slowly, painfully, he muscled his way up until he could get a grip on the handrail. Then, as silently as he could, he pulled himself to the top of the railing and let himself down on the other side, striking the floor with a muffled thud.

“What was that?” Manning demanded.

“What was what?” the cop said. “Come on, Mr. Manning, you’re not getting out of here. Just drop the gun.”

“For the last time, step away from the couple, or I’m going to start shooting.”

Stone had the 9mm automatic in his hand by now, and he slowly pumped the first round into the chamber. On his hands and knees, he crawled to the edge of the group and, very quickly, stuck his head out and withdrew it. What he remembered seeing was a white-haired man in a dinner jacket who had assumed the combat position, pistol in both hands, at arm’s length.

The odds were not good on hitting Manning before he could fire, Stone reflected. He crouched, ready to leap to one side of the group and start firing.

Then Manning changed everything. He fired a single shot into the group, and everybody scattered. The women were screaming, and a cop had thrown Liz to the floor and was lying on top of her. The group parted like the Red Sea, leaving Stone exposed, but also leaving him a clear shot at Manning. He took it, firing four rapid rounds down the hallway.

Manning fired twice more as he was spun backward, but Stone was sure the rounds had gone into the ceiling. Stone rushed him, pistol out before him, yelling, “Freeze, Manning!” He could hear people moving behind him.

As he ran down the hallway, he saw Manning struggle to one knee and start to raise his gun. Stone stopped and aimed. “Don’t!” he yelled.

But Manning wasn’t listening. His hand kept moving upward.

Stone fired once more, and Manning fell backward. Two Palm Beach officers were all over him, kicking his gun away, rolling him over and handcuffing him. Stone put his gun away and walked forward. “Is he alive?” he asked.

An officer knelt beside the man, his hand at Manning’s throat. “I’ve got a pulse,” he said.

Stone looked down at Manning. He reached out and pulled the white wig off, then turned his head. At last, he had a full frontal view of the man’s face. It was unrecognizable, and for a moment he thought he had the wrong man, but he remembered that voice. He held the mike to his lips. “The subject is secured. He needs an ambulance, now.” He turned and looked back down the hallway. Liz and Thad were sitting on the floor, a Palm Beach officer leaning against Thad, holding his upper arm. “Make that two ambulances,” Stone said into the mike. He walked over to where the three sat, moved the cop’s hand and looked at his arm. He found a clean handkerchief and pressed it onto the wound. “Hold that,” he said to the man.

Then he turned to Thad and Liz. “Is either of you hurt?”

“No,” they both said, simultaneously.

“I’m okay,” the cop said. “Get them out of here.”

Stone helped them up and led them to the master suite.