Stuart Woods: Iron Orchid

He came back to the kitchen with a suit that was only a little too big for him, a couple of shirts, some underwear and a presentable felt hat from the master bedroom and a man’s Burberry raincoat from the front hall closet. He packed them in the duffel, put his wet clothes and the towels into the washing machine, then he went into the attached garage. There was a ten-year-old Ford station wagon parked there, along with a pair of bicycles. He found a shovel, then he went out behind the house to what, in the summer, would be a very nice garden, and dug a hole four feet deep. He buried the chute, filled the hole, and arranged the soil to match the furrows of the garden, then he went back inside and put the washed things in the dryer.

An hour later, Teddy left the house exactly as he found it, absent the clothes and a bicycle. He strapped his duffel to the rear of the bike and began pedaling toward the lights of Kennebunkport. It was nearly six a.m., and the sun wouldn’t be up until eight.

On the outskirts of Kennebunkport he came to a diner, glowing brightly in the predawn, and out front was a sign proclaiming the place to be a Greyhound Bus stop. He checked the posted schedule: a bus to Boston in forty minutes. He went around to the side of the building, found a Dumpster and deposited the bicycle there. Then he went into the diner, consumed a large breakfast and was outside when the bus arrived.

He paid the driver for a ticket to Boston, then put his duffel in the overhead rack, slipped into a seat, tipped his hat over his eyes and fell soundly asleep. The bus made it to the Boston Greyhound terminal at midmorning, and Teddy bought another ticket for Atlantic City, New Jersey, departing immediately.

Late in the afternoon, Teddy left the bus in Atlantic City, went into the men’s room, locked himself in a stall and, fishing them from his duffel, donned a wig and a mustache. He found a wireless phone store, bought a throwaway cell phone, then phoned the Algonquin Hotel in New York and booked a room. He then took a cab to one of the casino hotels, went to the concierge’s desk and booked a car and driver.

Late in the afternoon, the car dropped him at the corner of 44th Street and Madison Avenue. He went into Brooks Brothers and, telling a salesman that the airlines had lost his luggage, bought two suits, a blue blazer, gray trousers, some shirts, ties, socks and underwear, a topcoat, a new hat and a suitcase. Teddy was a perfect size forty regular, so the only alterations necessary were hemming the trousers. He paid for everything with a credit card that drew on a large sum in a Cayman Islands bank. That done, he changed into a new suit, tossed his old clothes into a wastebasket and left the store carrying his new suitcase and the duffel. He walked the two blocks to the Algonquin, checked in and was escorted to his room.

He unpacked his new clothes, then opened a secret place in the lining of the duffel and dumped everything onto the bed. He inventoried the contents: a second wig and other makeup, four complete sets of identification and credit cards, plus the ones in his pockets, the pieces of a nonmetallic.380 pistol with a silencer that he had built himself, and ninety thousand dollars in used hundreds, fifties and twenties. He locked them in the safe in the closet, had dinner from room service and went to bed.

HOLLY BARKER TOOK AIM and squeezed off a round. Her father, Senior Master Sergeant, U.S. Army (ret.) Hamilton Barker, looked through his hand scope.

“High and to the right,” he said.

“How high and how far to the right of what?” Holly asked in disbelief.

“An inch high and to the right of dead center,” Ham replied. “That’s not good enough. Push with your right hand, pull with your left.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing since I was eight, when you first taught it to me,” Holly said. She took aim and, this time, made a point of pushing and pulling.

“That’s better,” Ham said.

“How much better?”

“A quarter of an inch off dead center,” he said.

“Oh, please,” Holly said, laughing.

“How did the Orchid Beach town council take your resignation as chief of police?” Ham asked.

“They were appropriately sad, except for a couple who looked relieved. At least they accepted my recommendation of Hurd Wallace to replace me. They’re getting a good man.”

“They’re losing a better woman. What are you going to do with your house?”

“One of my young policewomen is going to move into the guest house and be my caretaker. I’ll need the house to decompress once in a while. Also to remind me of Jackson.” Jackson Oxenhandler, Holly’s fiance, had been killed in a bank robbery two years before, an innocent bystander.

Ham went to his range bag and came back with a mahogany box.

“What’s that?”

“Something for you to take with you on the new job.” He handed her the box and a small key.

Holly set down the box, inserted the key and unlocked it. “Oooh,” she said, gazing at the shiny stainless slide with her name engraved on it. “Nice Colt.45.”

“It’s not a Colt, and it’s not a.45,” Ham said. “It’s a nine-millimeter made of Caspian parts. The lightweight frame was designed by Terry Tussey, and the grip holds a round shorter than standard, but it will conceal nicely. Only weighs twenty-one ounces. I thought it might come in handy.”

Holly picked up the small gun and hefted it. “Nice,” she said.

Ham handed her a loaded magazine. “See if you can hit anything with it”

The target was still set at twenty-five feet. Holly set herself, pushed and pulled and squeezed off the round.

“Half an inch off dead center,” Ham said. “Not bad, considering it’s a three-inch barrel, instead of four.”

“Sweet trigger,” Holly said. “Four, four and a half pounds?”

“Four, exactly. Try it with both eyes open, and use up the magazine, rapid fire.”

Holly obliged.

“That target no longer has a center,” Ham said, a touch of pride in his voice. He went back to his range bag and came back with some gun leather. “Mitch Rosen made you a shoulder rig, a belt and a holster for it,” he said.

“It’s beautiful work,” she said, caressing the mahogany leather. “Thank you, Ham.” She put her arms around him and hugged.

Ham, uncharacteristically, hugged her back, but then he looked a little embarrassed. “What time did you file for?”

“Ten,” Holly said. “My stuff’s in the car.”

“You’ll have to clear out at Fort Pierce for the Bahamas,” Ham said.

“I know, Ham.”

“I don’t know why you want to go to the Bahamas alone for a weekend,” he said.

“I just want to take Daisy and spend the weekend alone; I have a lot to think about.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’ll be back on Monday, maybe Sunday night, depending on the weather.”

“Okay.”

She packed up her things, put her new gun into her range bag and went to the car. She gave Ham a wave and drove off.

AT FOUR O’CLOCK that afternoon, Holly landed the rented Cessna at Roberts International Airport in Grand Cayman, having flown first to the Bahamas, checked into a hotel, filed a new flight plan and left Daisy in a prearranged kennel. She dropped off her bag with the doorman at her Georgetown hotel, then kept the cab for the trip to the bank. Refusing the driver’s help, she hefted the two nylon duffels from the trunk of the cab and carried them inside.

A Mr. Dellinger-English, well-tailored and very discreet looking-was waiting for her. He nodded for a guard to take the bags, and the man went into a side room while Dellinger showed her into his office.

“How do you do?” Dellinger said, offering his hand.