Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

He heard Joan come through the front door. He buzzed her. “Joan?”

She picked up. “Yes?”

“Do you know where Ed Rawls is?”

“He had lunch in his room. After that, I went to the hairdresser’s, as is my weekly wont.”

“Thank you.” Stone pressed the page button on his phone. “Ed, if you’re in the house, please pick up any telephone.”

A phone was picked up, but not by Ed. “Stone?” Holly said.

“Funny, you don’t sound like Ed Rawls.”

“He’s not in. I stopped by his room to ask him something, but he didn’t respond to my knock.”

“Thank you.” He hung up, and he had an awful feeling that Ed might have found the pressure too much and done something to himself. He got onto the elevator and went up to the guest floor, then knocked sharply on Ed’s door. “Ed? It’s Stone. You there?” No response, so with misgivings, he opened the door.

The room was in perfect order, and there was a stack of empty Brooks Brothers boxes neatly piled at the foot of the bed. The small duffel he had loaned Ed was sitting on the bed. He checked the bathroom: in perfect order.

Stone went back to his office, a knot in the pit of his stomach, and tapped in the combination to his safe. He spun the wheel and swung open the big door, checking the contents. The strong case was gone.

He sat down heavily, got out his iPhone, and called Ed.

“Good day,” his voice said. “The person you have called no longer exists, and this phone is in a dumpster somewhere. Kindly go fuck yourself.”

Stone hung up the phone. The bottom seemed to have dropped out of his stomach. He went into his contacts list, found Lance’s cell number, and called it.

No one answered; there was just a beep. “Lance, it’s Stone Barrington. Please call me at once.”

He put the phone down and tried to think where Ed would go. His only home was a heap of ashes and rubble, so it was unlikely he would go there. Then where? He realized that he had never known Ed anywhere else but Islesboro. His phone rang.

“Hello?”

“What is it, Stone? I’m in a hurry.”

“Ed Rawls has flown the coop.”

“Which coop?”

“My coop. And the strong case is no longer in my safe. Tell me, is Ed one of those dozen people you know who could open it in ten minutes?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Lance said. “I thought we had this all sorted out.”

“So did I, but apparently Ed disagrees.”

“Do you have any idea where he could have gone?”

“His only home is Islesboro, and that’s burned to a crisp, and I’ve no idea who or where his ex-wife is.”

“I’ll call you back.” Lance hung up.

Holly rapped on his office door and came in. “Did you find Ed?”

Stone redialed Ed’s number and handed Holly the phone. She listened and handed it back to him. “What does this mean?”

“He’s gone.”

“That’s perfectly obvious. What does it mean?”

“I had a long conversation with Lance over lunch, and he convinced me that this whole business with Ed is much worse than I had contemplated.”

“In what way?”

“Ed is, apparently, now a danger to himself and others — in fact, a danger to pretty much everything we hold dear.”

“Please bring me up to date on that.”

Stone recounted his entire conversation with Lance. “I came home prepared to turn over the strong case, but that is as gone as Ed. He got into my safe.”

“Oh, shit,” Holly said, flopping into a chair. “I’d better call Kate.”

“Given your present status at the White House, I don’t think you could get through.” He called the White House and left a message for Will, adding “urgent” to it.

“Where would he go?” she asked. “Islesboro doesn’t exist for him anymore.”

“I was about to ask you the same question,” Stone said. “I have no fucking idea.”

“The ex-wife,” she said.

“I thought of that, but I don’t know who or where she is, or even if she’s still alive. I mentioned it to Lance, and I expect he’s looking into it.”

“Does he have any money?”

“I’ve no idea.”

The phone rang, and Stone answered it.

“It’s Lance. Ed’s ex-wife died five months ago, and apparently they hadn’t spoken in years. I’ve got people going through his personnel file, listing people that he might contact.”

“Great.”

“I’ll call you when I know more.” He hung up.

Stone’s phone rang almost immediately. “Yes?”

“Stone Barrington?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“This is Marvin at the Steele Insurance Group’s claims department.”

“Yes?”

“I tried to reach Mr. Rawls but got a rather strange message on his phone.”

“Yes?”

“I thought perhaps you’d like to know that his claim has been approved, and I’ve wire-transferred half a million dollars to his bank account. That is the amount his home was insured for. If you could ask Mr. Rawls to send us a list of his furnishings with their replacement costs, we will process that claim separately. We thought he might like to have some cash now.”

“Yes, I expect he would,” Stone said. “Did you wire it to his Islesboro, Maine, account?”

“Let me see.”

Stone could hear computer keys being tapped.

“No, not to the Maine account — one in Georgetown... let’s see where that is... Ah, it’s in someplace called the Cayman Islands.”

“Thank you, Marvin. I’ll give Mr. Rawls your message when I speak to him.” He hung up and turned to Holly. “To answer your last question, his insurance claim for his house was approved and the funds wired. He now has half a million dollars in an offshore account.”

Stone’s phone rang again. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Will Lee said.

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Stone said.

“Our friend from Virginia has already called and brought me up to date.”

“I’m sorry about the package. It was locked in my safe.”

“You weren’t expected to have him in handcuffs. Do you have any idea where he may have gone?”

“None, I’m afraid. I had lunch with our Virginia friend today, and he convinced me not to allow our other friend to release the contents of the package. When I got home, he was gone. He has no home, now, after the fire, and the only other person I could think of that he might go to was his ex-wife, but I understand she died several months ago.”

“What do you think he will do with the package?”

“He’s had a lecture, in my presence, from our Virginia friend on the irresponsibility of circulating it.”

“Unfortunately, there are many media organs who don’t share the responsible view.”

“Perhaps it might be time for you to reveal the contents of the package. If you use the period between now and the big event to explain things, the stories might peter out by that time.”

“That would be very risky.”

“Speak with your lady about it.”

“She knows nothing of this business, and I don’t feel it’s the right time to tell her.”

“When would the right time be?”

“On my deathbed, or perhaps much later.”

“Are you coming up here soon?”

“Possibly. I’ll give you a call, and we’ll get together.”

“I’d like that.”

“Goodbye.” He hung up.

Ed Rawls got off the train and, towing his new Brooks Brothers rolling bag with the strong case strapped to it, found the street and got into a taxi. After a brief negotiation with the driver over the long ride, he settled into the rear seat with the Washington Post and read until, over an hour later, they arrived.

The house was shuttered, but neat. The lawn service had taken care of the grass and plants. Ed left the real estate sign where it was, then let himself in and locked the door behind him. The house had been built in 1774 and rebuilt several times since, and it made little creaking noises as he walked up the stairs. His late ex-wife’s clothes and personal items had been removed by the people he had hired, so he put his luggage in a cupboard in his old dressing room. He tried a lamp, and it worked; the phone did not, but he had half a dozen throwaway cell phones in a shopping bag.