Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

“I’ll be invisible.” Bob left, and Stone went back to his mail.

Stone had a sandwich at his desk, and around five, Jamie walked in with a fat manuscript under her arm. “I finished it,” she said. “The corrections were almost entirely technical.”

“Lucky you.”

“I’ll get Joan to messenger it to Scott, if that’s all right.”

“Sure.”

She went into Joan’s office, but she was back a minute later, and they went up to his study for a drink.

“What happens now?” Stone asked.

“Scott and Jeremy will read it, then it will go through rigorous fact-checking. When that’s done, it will go to my publisher, and I’ll get a nice check.”

“What are your plans while you’re waiting?”

“Whatever you’d like them to be,” she replied.

“I’m happiest when you’re around.”

“I’ll stop by my place tomorrow and check out the mail, though all I ever get is bills and trash.”

“Why don’t you get someone to do that for you?” Stone asked.

“Do you think there’s still a problem?”

“They’re still looking for Bob Cantor. They could be looking for you, too.”

“I’ll get my secretary to pick it up and bring it here.”

“No, have her take it to your office and go through it. She can messenger over here what you need to see. Or if you want to go to the office, Fred will drive you there and bring you back.”

“I think I’ll do that,” she said. “I was hoping this would be over.”

“So was I, but I don’t think it is. Have you got a pub date for your book?”

“They’re going to rush it, so four weeks after they get the final manuscript.”

“Good. You can work on your autobiography, and when the book comes out, it will be over. That’s my best guess, anyway. They’ll have nothing to gain once the book is in print.”

“Jeremy thinks the Thomases will try for an injunction to stop publication.”

“They won’t get it. In Britain, they probably would because they have stricter libel laws there. Anyway, their attempt to stop publication would be good publicity for the book.”

“We’ll play it for all it’s worth.”

“How are you feeling? Any jet lag?”

“Just a little tired.”

“The trick, flying west, is to stay up as long as you can, then get a good night’s sleep.”

“Then you’ll have to think of something to keep me awake,” she said.

“I’ll think about nothing else, until bedtime,” he replied.

Sherry sat at her new desk, staring at the computer screen, at a letter Rance Damien had dictated. She was shaken. She had been caught twice, once by Damien and then by Van, or whatever his name was. It crossed her mind that she had enjoyed being around Van more than Damien. Someone put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. She looked up to find Damien standing there, staring at her with that gaze his facial scarring had given him.

“What’s wrong, Sherry?”

“Nothing, Mr. Damien. I guess I was just daydreaming.”

“You’re still rattled by what happened on Monday night, aren’t you?”

“I guess I am.”

“Why don’t you take some time off, recharge the batteries?”

“Well,” she replied, “I’ve got some vacation time coming. Would you mind if I take a week, starting tomorrow?”

“Where would you like to go?” Damien asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t given it any thought yet.”

“Do you want to be with a lot of people or just alone?”

“Just alone, I think.”

“We have a place up on the coast of Maine, near Rockland. It’s a comfortable house with some staff, with a beautiful beach and views of Penobscot Bay. Why don’t you be our guest there, for as long as you like, then let me know when you’re ready to come back to work?”

“That sounds lovely, Mr. Damien. It’s very kind of you to offer it. Are you sure I won’t be interfering with someone else’s vacation?”

“You’ll be the only person there, except for the housekeeper and the handyman — and the housekeeper is a good cook. You won’t even have to buy groceries.”

“All right, I’d love to. How should I travel? Plane or car?”

“Do you have a car?”

“No, I’d have to rent one.”

“I’ll have a company plane fly you to Rockland, and someone will meet you there. My secretary will have a car pick you up tomorrow and take you to Teterboro.”

“What’s the weather like in Maine this time of year?”

“Sunny, in the seventies right now. You’ll need a sweater or jacket for the evenings, which turn cool.”

“Thank you, Mr. Damien. This is very kind of you.”

The following morning, at Teterboro, she was escorted to a small jet. An hour later, they were setting down at Rockland. As they taxied to the ramp, she saw a large man standing next to a green van with something painted on the side that turned out to be: GREEN HILL COTTAGE.

The man took her luggage and stowed it in the van, then helped her inside.

“My name is Hurd Parker,” the man said to her. “You’re Miss Spector?”

“Sherry will do.”

The man nodded and drove her through Camden, then Rockland, and out the other side before turning toward the water. The cottage was larger than she had expected, and when she was inside she was surprised at how large the rooms were.

Hurd introduced her to Heather, his wife, who was the housekeeper, and she was shown to a comfortable bedroom on the second floor, with a deck and a view of the bay.

Sherry unpacked, then took a book down to a library off the living room and found a comfortable chair near the window. As the sun set, Hurd lit a fire for her, and Heather brought her dinner to the library and set it up on a small table.

Two days later Sherry was getting cabin fever. She asked Hurd if she could borrow a car to see some of the area.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Guests aren’t allowed to drive our vehicles. It’s an insurance thing. I can give you a golf cart that will take you to the beach.”

“Thank you, I’d like that.”

Heather packed her a lunch, and she tossed that and her beach bag into the golf cart and followed Hurd’s directions to the sea. Once there, she was surprised by how deserted the area was, so she spread a blanket and removed her bathing suit top to get some sun without tan lines. She stretched out and soon dozed off.

She was awakened by a noise she couldn’t identify, exactly. She turned over on her stomach and had a look into the trees behind her. She saw movement and realized she was being watched, probably by Hurd. She put her top back on and tried to read for a while, then gave up and went back to the house.

In her room she began to review her situation. She was alone hundreds of miles from New York, and she hadn’t even seen a telephone in the house. She got out her iPhone, but couldn’t get a signal. Rummaging in her bag, she found the throwaway cell phone that Van had given her, but she couldn’t get a signal on that, either. She got up and walked out onto her deck. She found that she could get a weak signal if she stood in a corner on the seaward side.

She sat in a lounge chair for a while, then she walked back to the corner, took out the throwaway, and pressed the button that called Van’s number. No one answered, but she had been told to expect that. Instead, she heard only a beep.

“Van,” she said hesitantly, “this is Sherry. I’m sorry about the other night. I was under a lot of pressure. I was sure they were after you, so I’m glad you didn’t show. I’m at a house in Maine, near Rockland, owned by the Thomases. It’s deserted, except for a handyman and a housekeeper, who seem to be watching me closely. I don’t have a car, and I’m starting to worry about what could happen to me here. I’m getting a very weak signal from one spot on a deck outside my room. Will you call me on this phone tomorrow morning at ten o’clock sharp? I’ll stand in this spot and wait for your call.”