Robin Cook - Terminal

“Who was he?” Janet asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Sean said.

“What are we going to tell the police?” Janet asked.

“Nothing,” Sean said. “We’re not going to the police. I can’t. They’re looking for me. I can’t go until I talk to Brian.”

They ran past the pool and into the hotel.

“The man with the gun had to be associated with Forbes too,” Janet said. “Otherwise, the head of security wouldn’t have been here.”

“You’re probably right,” Sean said. “Unless Robert Harris is after me just like the police are. He could be playing bounty hunter. I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to get rid of me.”

“I don’t like any of this,” Janet admitted as they rode up in the elevator.

“Me neither,” Sean said. “Something weird’s happening, and we don’t have a clue.”

“What are we going to do?” Janet asked. “I still think we should go to the police.”

“First thing we’re going to do is change hotels,” Sean said. “I don’t like Harris knowing where we’re staying. It’s bad enough he knows we’re in Naples.”

Once in the room they quickly got their things together. Janet again tried to talk Sean into going to the police, but he adamantly refused.

“Now here’s the plan,” Sean said. “I’ll take the bags and go down to the pool, then slip out by the tennis courts. You go down to the front door, get the car, then come and pick me up.”

“What are you talking about?” Janet demanded. “Why all this sneaking around?”

“We were followed here at least by Harris,” Sean said. “I want everybody to think we’re still staying here.”

Janet decided it was easier just to go along with Sean. She could tell he was in no mood to argue. Besides, he might be right to be this paranoid.

Sean left first with the bags.

Wayne Edwards walked back to the Mercedes at a fast clip and climbed into the passenger seat. Sterling had moved behind the wheel.

Up ahead Sterling could see the youthful Japanese man climbing back into the limousine.

“What’s happening?” Sterling asked.

“I’m not sure,” Wayne said. “The Jap just sat in the foyer and read magazines. Then the girl appeared alone. She’s under the porte cochere waiting for the car. No sign of Sean Murphy. I bet those guys in the limo are as confused as we are.”

A parking valet drove by in the red Pontiac. He parked under the porte cochere.

The limousine started up, spewing a puff of black smoke from its tailpipe.

Sterling started the Mercedes. He told Wayne that the Sushita jet was on its way to Naples.

“Not much doubt something’s going to happen,” Wayne said.

“I’m sure it will be tonight,” Sterling said. “We’ve got to be prepared.”

Presently the red Pontiac went by with Janet Reardon at the wheel. Behind her came the limo. Sterling made a U-turn.

At the base of the drive the Pontiac turned right. The limo followed.

“I smell a fish,” Wayne said. “Something’s not right with this picture. To get to the road you have to turn left. This right is a dead end.”

Sterling turned right to follow the others. Wayne was correct; the road dead-ended. But just before the dead end they came to an entrance to a large parking lot that was partially obscured by foliage. Sterling pulled in.

“There’s the limo,” Wayne said, pointing off to the right.

“And there’s the Pontiac,” Sterling said, motioning toward the tennis courts. “And there is Mr. Murphy loading luggage in the trunk. This is a rather unorthodox departure.”

“I suppose they think they’re being clever,” Wayne said, shaking his head.

“Maybe this move has something to do with Mr. Robert Harris,” Sterling suggested.

They watched the red Pontiac drive by and out the exit. The limo followed. After waiting a bit, Sterling did the same.

“Watch for Harris’s blue sedan,” Sterling advised.

Wayne nodded. “I’ve been watching,” he assured him.

They drove south for four or five miles, then cut west toward the Gulf. Eventually they ended up on Gulf Shore Boulevard.

“This area is a lot more built up,” Wayne said. Either side of the road had condominium buildings with manicured lawns and pampered flower beds.

They drove for a short time before they saw the red Pontiac pull up a ramp to the first-floor entrance of the Edgewater Beach Hotel. The limo pulled off the road but remained on the ground level, turning in under the building. Sterling pulled off the road and parked in a diagonal spot to the right of the ramp. He turned off the ignition. At the top of the ramp they could see Sean directing the removal of their luggage from the Pontiac’s trunk.

“A nice little hotel,” Wayne said. “Less ostentatious.”

“I believe you’ll find the facade misleading,” Sterling said. “Through some of my banking connections I’ve heard this place had been purchased by a charming Swiss fellow who added significant European elegance.”

“You think Tanaka will try to make his move from here?” Wayne asked.

“I believe he’s hoping Sean and his companion will go out so that he can corner them in some isolated location.”

“If I were with that chick I think I’d bolt the door and order room service.”

Sterling picked up the car phone. “Speaking of Mr. Murphy’s companion, let’s see what my contacts in Boston have learned about her.”

“This is a fabulous room,” Janet said as she opened the large wooden tropical shutters.

Sean joined her. “It looks almost as if we’re cantilevered out over the beach,” he said. They were on the third floor. The beach was illuminated all the way down to the water’s edge. A line of Hobie Cats were directly below them.

They were both making an attempt to put the disturbing beach experience behind them. At first Janet wanted to go back to Miami, but Sean talked her into staying. He’d said whatever the explanation for the episode was, at least it was now behind them. He’d said that since they’d driven all the way over to Naples, they should at least enjoy themselves.

“Let’s get a move on,” Sean said. “Malcolm Betencourt is expecting us in forty minutes.”

While Janet showered, Sean sat down and tried Brian one more time. He was frustrated when he got the answering machine yet again. He left a third message instructing his brother to disregard the previous phone number. He gave the Edgewater Beach number and the room number, adding that he’d be out for dinner, but to call later, no matter the time. He said it was vitally important for them to talk.

Sean then called the Betencourt residence to say they might be a few minutes late. Mr. Betencourt assured him it wasn’t a problem and thanked him for calling.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with Janet still in the shower, Sean took out the pistol he’d picked up on the beach. Snapping open the cylinder, he shook out some sand. It was an ancient .38 Smith and Wesson detective special. There were four remaining cartridges. Sean shook his head when he thought how close he’d come to being shot. He also thought about the irony of being saved by someone he’d disliked from the moment he’d first met him.

Snapping the cylinder of the revolver closed, Sean put the gun under his shirt. There had been a few too many inexplicable brushes with disaster in the last twenty-four hours for him to pass up this chance to arm himself. Sean sensed that something bizarre was happening, and like any good medical diagnostician, he was trying to relate all the symptoms to a single illness. Intuitively, he felt he should keep the gun just in case. Inwardly he was still shaking from the feeling of helplessness he’d had just before the gun had gone off.