Wild Card

20

Stone flew left seat. He took off and flew the clearance he had been given for Teterboro, while Faith worked the radios. “Boston Center,” she said, “this is N123TF, climbing through 210 for flight level 450. Request a destination change.” She waited for the response, then: “Request jet routes along the coast to final destination Echo Yankee Whiskey. She stood by while the controller worked it out, then gave her the clearance. “Okay,” she said to Stone. She entered the new route into the flight computer and pressed DIRECT to the first waypoint, then pressed the autopilot button. The autopilot was flying the airplane now.

Stone gave up the left seat, Faith moved over to replace him, and her copilot took the right seat.

Stone went back to speak with his group, but they were all fully reclined under blankets and dead to the world. He found a blanket and a pillow and, satisfied that his pursuers had no idea where they were going, fell asleep himself.

He was awakened by a reduction in power and the beginning of a descent. His watch said a little after nine; he turned on the small screen next to his seat and selected the moving map: eighteen minutes to destination. “Okay, everybody, we’re landing in fifteen minutes.”

The dead bodies began to move and sit up, blinking. Window shades went up and sunlight streamed in. “My housekeeper and property manager will meet us with an SUV and a convertible. Luggage goes into the SUV until it’s full, then into the convertible’s trunk. It’s a ten-minute drive to the house.”

The airplane set down gently and taxied to the ramp outside Stone’s hangar, where the two vehicles waited. He told Faith to hangar the airplane, then rent a car and drive to the house he leased for visiting staff. She had been there before.

Once at the house, they garaged the vehicles, unloaded the luggage, and then Stone gave them a tour. “The house is pretty much built out to the property lines and the street, except for the driveway, so you can swim and sunbathe without being seen by unwanted eyes. There are two courtyards: one large, with a pool, spa, and outdoor seating and dining. And there’s a smaller one with just seating. Lunch will be served at one, indoors, where it’s cool, and we’ll meet out here at six for drinks — and dinner — when it’s cooler. Whether we dine indoors or out is up to the weather.” He assigned them to rooms, with Rawls on the ground floor in the middle of the house, then he showed Jamie to the master suite, which occupied a small house of its own.

“I’m going to go outside and read for a while,” Jamie said.

“It’s going to get hot, so if you start to feel uncomfortable use my study.” He hung up his clothes, then went to his study and called Joan.

“I’ve left you a couple of messages,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to look at them.”

“Dino called again. He’s worried that he hasn’t heard from you. And somebody who smelled like a process server came to the door. I told him you were out of the state.”

“Any idea what that was about?”

“Yeah, somebody is suing you — or Jamie. He asked for her, too.”

“That sounds like the Thomases,” Stone said.

“I told him there was no use coming back for a couple of weeks.”

“Good.”

“Do I get to know where you are?”

“We’re at the Key West house.”

“You and Jamie?”

“And three other people. Faith is staying in the staff house.”

“I envy you all.”

“Don’t, it’s hot in Key West.”

“Okay, I’m here.” They both hung up.

Jamie was standing in the doorway, holding the New York Times and a book. “Knock, knock,” she said. “It’s hot out there.”

“Take a seat.”

“I just talked to my office,” she said. “My assistant says the Thomases are suing both the paper and me, personally.”

“For what?”

“Telling the truth, I guess, but they’re calling it defamation.”

“They tried to serve us both at my house. You’ll need an attorney. I’ll take care of that.”

“You won’t represent me yourself?”

“No, we’re both defendants, and you know what they say about a lawyer who represents himself.”

“He’s an idiot?”

“Something like that. I’ve got the perfect guy, at Woodman & Weld, to defend both of us. His name is Herbert Fisher.”

“Is he the scary one I’ve heard about?”

“Yes, but only in court. You’ll like him.”

“When am I going to meet him?”

“When we get back, but I don’t know when that will be, yet. I’ll brief Herbie and tell him to accept service. He’ll want to speak to you, too.”

“Can I afford him?”

“I’ll make Jeremy Green pay him for you.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been sued,” she said. “I’ve already got all my notes together at the office; he can read those.”

“Good. I can pretty much guarantee you that Herbie is going to publicize this suit to the max, and that should include a front-page piece in the Times about it.”

“I’ll talk to Scott and Jeremy and ask them, but my guess is, they’re already working on it.”

“Pick up any phone,” he said.

She chose the one on the coffee table, while Stone switched on his computer and read his e-mail.

Ed Rawls came to the door and picked up a military-looking rifle that was leaning against the wall. “What’s this for?”

“It’s an air gun, for shooting iguanas,” Stone said. “They infest the island. Raul, the property manager, has already killed eighty-odd.”

“I can use some target practice,” Rawls said.

“Try not to bombard the neighbors’ roofs or shoot out their windows,” Stone said. “Other than that, you’re in charge of the iguana squad. Sack ’em up two at a time, the bigger the better, and put them in the garbage cans on the street.”

Rawls picked up a box of pellets and wandered toward the main courtyard.

“Are iguanas not nice?” Jamie asked.

“Don’t ask,” Stone replied. “The good thing is, they’re ugly, not cute — and they shit all over everything, so they don’t get any sympathy.”

“Not even from the animal activists?”

“They’ve all got pellet guns,” Stone said. “You know the old saying in the army that there are no atheists in foxholes? Well, there are no animal activists with iguana shit on their shoes.”