A Safe House

24

Lance accepted a drink from Stone. “Thank you. Do you mind if I use Dick’s secret office for a while?”

“Feel free.”

“What’s the best hotel in Rockland?”

Stone went into the living room and got a brochure naming the dozen best Rockland hotels. “Take your pick,” he said.

Lance dialed the first number, and it was promptly answered by a young woman. “Would you connect me with your guest, Mr. Harley Quince?” he asked.

“One moment, please,” she replied.

There was a click, and a man said, “Yeah?”

Lance wanted to hang up immediately. He hadn’t expected to find Quince so quickly, and he didn’t have a plan. “I beg your pardon,” he said, slipping into full Brit mode. “I believe I may have been put through to a wrong number. Please forgive me.” He hung up and walked into the living room. “I’ve found Harley Quince,” he said.

“Where?” Stone asked.

“At the Rockland Harbor Hotel.”

“On that list I gave you?”

“Number one on that list. I called, he answered, I gave him the British version of ‘Sorry, wrong number,’ and hung up.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Yeah.’ ”

“What do we do now?” Dino asked.

“I don’t quite know,” Lance said. “We’re not the police, we don’t have a warrant, and the last ferry has sailed.”

“We could call the state police, Sergeant Young,” Stone said.

“And tell him what?”

“Ask him to get a warrant?”

“On what evidence?”

“A bullet in the leg?”

“An alleged bullet in the leg. He has a leg wound, but we can’t prove it’s from a bullet. The ER doctor bought his story, or he would have called the police.”

“Is there some way we could do this, ah, extra-legally?” Stone asked.

“You mean, send a sniper over there and shoot him?”

“I’d like to point out that I didn’t say that,” Stone said.

“How about charging him with stealing the boat?” Dino asked.

“He returned the boat and left a thousand dollars on the seat. He would say he rented it.”

“But the boat is full of bullet holes.”

“Not anymore.”

“We’d have the boatyard manager’s testimony.”

“What could he testify to? He never saw Quince.”

“He could testify to the... former holes,” Stone said.

“The renter damaged the boat, he paid for the damage.”

“How about attempted murder?”

“Who’s the attemptee?”

“I am,” Stone said.

“Then why aren’t you dead? Can you otherwise prove you were shot at?”

“We all heard the gunshots.”

“We heard a noise, and there’s not a mark on the glass.”

“Why are you making this difficult, Lance?”

“I’m not making it difficult. I’m trying to make it possible. All we’ve got on our side is a bunch of armed kids, who have fired their weapons, which is against Maine law, unless you’ve got a hunting license.”

“Maybe Ed Rawls will get a shot at him tonight?”

“Quince’s not going anywhere tonight. He’s wounded.”

They had another drink and sat around, disconsolately. Finally, one by one, they went to bed.

Ed Rawls lay on the floorboards of his boat for two hours, then he said to himself, “Quince’s not coming. He’s wounded.” He grabbed his baseball cap, stuck it on a burgee staff, and raised it above the level of the gunwales. He heard a pfft noise, and the cap flew away.

“Hold your goddamned fire!” he yelled.

“Sorry, Mr. Rawls,” a young woman’s voice said.

“I’m standing up now. Don’t fucking kill me!” he shouted.

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

Rawls stood up and survived. “All right,” he said to the night air, “he ain’t going to show. Let’s pack it in and get some sleep.”

Shadowy figures moved out of the bushes and filed off toward the barn.

Ed watched them go, then went into the house and found his throwaway phone.

“Hello,” Stone said sleepily.

“Quince’s not going to show,” Ed said.

“He’s wounded.”

“Well, we’re gonna get some sleep.”

“We did that an hour ago,” Stone said, then hung up.

“Sorry to wake you,” Ed said to the dial tone.