Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

He went downstairs with the strong case to his old study, which had hardly been touched. Myra had never liked it — too cave-like for her, but he felt instantly at home again, his books still on the shelves. He pressed a hidden button and a bookcase swung outward, revealing a large safe. He opened it, stowed the strong case inside, locked it, and swung the bookcase back into place. He switched on the computer and checked his mail — he had kept the e-mail address mostly to deal with the house. When they had divorced, he had given Myra lifetime occupancy, but he had retained title and had gone on paying the utility bills, insurance, lawn service, and the maid who came in twice a week. He switched on his reading lamp, found a book he hadn’t read, and started it. He knew they would be here soon.

He had not long to wait. He heard a footstep on the front porch, and he switched off his lamp and stood behind the study door, perfectly still.

“Pretty quiet,” he heard a male voice say. “You check upstairs, I’ll look around for signs of life down here.” Footsteps went up the stairs, others around the living room and kitchen. A man came and stood in the study doorway and played a flashlight around the room. Footsteps descended the stairs, and the two men stood outside in the main hall and talked for a minute.

“I called at the real estate office,” one of them said, “and got a key. They’ve had some interest in the place, but not much. Nobody at the Agency would even look at it because it was associated with Rawls.”

“You think there’s a Russian radio hidden here somewhere?”

The other laughed. “No, our people went through the place thoroughly after Rawls was arrested and again after the woman died. It’s just a house. I ought to buy it myself. It’s less than five miles from the Agency.” The two men left.

Rawls waited until he heard the car drive away, then he went back into his study, sat down, and resumed reading his book. Late in the afternoon he heard a truck in the driveway, and the clump of something being deposited on the front porch. He waited for the truck to drive away, then put down his book and went to the front door. He had ordered groceries over the phone, using a credit card from his Caymans bank, and they were here: a week’s food and two bottles of the Talisker single malt he had enjoyed at Stone’s house. He took them into the kitchen, put everything away, and made himself a drink, then returned to his study and his book. After a while he dozed off, and when he awoke it was dark outside. All the shades, blinds, and curtains were drawn, so he didn’t need to worry about light leaks. He took one of his new cell phones from his pocket and made a call.

Stone picked up his phone; blocked call. “Hello?”

“Hello, Stone, it’s Ed.”

“I was worried about you, Ed.”

“No, you were just worried about what I’d do. That’s why I called.”

“What are you going to do, Ed?”

“I’m going to keep my mouth shut. I’ve already destroyed my archive in Islesboro.”

“And how did you do that?”

“There was an incendiary charge set in the pool room. I detonated it with a phone call and a code. It was designed to burn up everything and melt the metal cabinets. No paper would have survived.”

“And the case?”

“It’s safe, and I’ll be out of the country before midnight.”

“Everyone who’s interested will be glad to hear it. For what it’s worth, Ed, I believe it’s the right thing to do.”

“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “You’re going to get a check from my offshore bank for your services,” he said.

“Not necessary.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t want to owe anybody anything.”

“Oh, by the way, I had a call from your insurance agent. They’ve paid your claim and wired half a million dollars to your Caymans bank.”

“Good to know, thanks.”

“That was the insured value of the house. They said you could submit an additional claim for the contents.”

“Maybe I’ll get around to it.”

“I suppose you’ve already got a throwaway phone. Keep in touch. I’d like to be able to reach you, should there be further developments.”

“I’ll check in from time to time,” Ed said.

“Take care of yourself.”

“I always do.”

“You’re not the subject of a criminal investigation, Ed, so the law isn’t after you.”

“That hardly matters, since there are enough other people after me.”

“And who would that be?”

“Lance Cabot for one, the others are more shadowy.”

“I’ll see if I can cool Lance down a bit.”

“You can try. Goodbye for now, Stone.”

As he hung up he heard another car pull into the driveway, and he switched off the lamp. Shortly, the front door opened and he heard voices. He had a gun in a box on a bookshelf, disguised as leather-bound volumes. He quickly retrieved the pistol and stood behind the door again.

The front door was unlocked and opened, and Ed heard two, maybe three voices.

“It’s really a lovely house,” a woman said. “Big rooms for the period and lots of storage space.” This, he figured, was the real estate agent.

The other two were a man and a woman, and their voices carried into the living room. Lights were switched on.

“How many square feet?” the man asked.

“About forty-five hundred in the main house. Then there’s a fifteen-hundred-foot building with a two-car garage and guest or staff quarters, furnished. The property is available furnished throughout, since the owner was a divorcée with no children. The kitchen is this way.”

Ed stood and listened to fragments of their conversation, then they came back and stood in the study doorway. The agent flipped on the overhead light. “Lots of bookcases, as you can see, and lots of books, too.”

“Do the books come with the house?” the woman asked.

“They do, but if you don’t want them I’m sure a local library would be glad to have them.”

“Would you give us a minute to talk?” the man asked.

“Of course. I’ll start turning off lights.” The agent walked away.

“This is a dead end,” the man said. “Except for cleaning, the place hasn’t been touched since Rawls’s ex died.”

“I expect you’re right,” the woman replied, “but we need to write a report, anyway.”

“I’ll bet the Agency pulled this place apart after the woman died,” the man said.

“If they did, they did a nice job of putting it back together.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Ma’am?” he called out. “We’re ready to leave now.”

The agent returned. “Do you have any interest?”

“It’s very nice,” the woman said, “but we’ll need to talk about it. What are you asking, again?”

“Two million, furnished. My instructions are that it’s a firm price.”

“That may be too steep for us,” the man said. Then the last light was turned off and the door locked. A minute later, the car drove away.

Rawls sat back in his chair, gave them five minutes, and switched his lamp back on. He checked his watch: nine-thirty; pretty late for a viewing. He went back to the kitchen and heated himself a can of soup.

Stone, Holly, and the Bacchettis were having dinner at Patroon. “So,” Stone said, “what did you and Whit Saltonstall have to talk about at lunch?”

“This and that,” Dino said.

“Come on, Dino, a politician doesn’t waste time having lunch and talking about this and that.”

“Nevertheless,” Dino said. “What did you and Lance talk about?”

“This and that,” Stone said, and the women laughed at them.

“I hear your buddy Rawls took a hike this afternoon.”