Shoot Him If He Runs

46

Teddy Fay stood on a cliff at the eastern end of St. Marks and watched the waves crash against the rocks a hundred feet below. He didn’t want to do this, but he had considered the alternatives, and there weren’t any. He couldn’t allow himself to be caught or even questioned with it in his possession.

He went back to his vehicle, opened the case and looked at the sniper’s rifle one last time. He had done all the gunsmithing on that weapon, made it into the precision tool it was, and he loved it the way some men loved an old dog.

He snapped the case shut, looked around to be sure he was entirely alone, then stood on a boulder embedded in the top of the cliff and imagined himself flinging the case as far as he could, then watching it sink in the deep water. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Teddy trudged to his vehicle, started it and began to drive back.

As he drove up Black Mountain Road, he caught a glimpse in his rear view mirror of an old Land Rover entering the road at the bottom of the mountain. It was not a police car, but Teddy automatically paid attention to every vehicle behind him. He was beginning to sweat as he continued up the mountain; there was only the one road, and his escape plans did not include a close pursuit by anybody. But the vehicle stayed well back.

Then, to his enormous relief, the Land Rover turned into the driveway of the Pemberton house. He continued to his own drive, then garaged the vehicle, removed the rifle case and let himself into his underground bunker in the house’s old cistern.

Teddy did not believe that he would be caught or have his identity discovered by anyone, let alone the clown, duBois, whom he knew Croft had distrusted. Croft had been the kind of man who preferred his subordinates to be loyal but only marginally competent, and duBois fit that mold perfectly; he was the other viper in the nest of the St. Marks police, and Teddy wished he had eliminated him, too. Maybe he still would.

Nevertheless, he would make preparations. He got a small sledge and a chisel and began to cut into the concrete floor along a line only he would have noticed. Soon, he had freed a piece of plywood that had been concealed by an inch of concrete. He pulled it back to reveal a compartment that contained equipment, much of which he considered important and some of which he considered essential to his continued survival.

He removed a small, hard-shelled leather suitcase, dialed in the combinations of both locks and opened it. He chose a blade in his Swiss Army knife and carefully pried up the false bottom. Arrayed around the floor of the hidden compartment was a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills; on top of that lay eight passports, four of them American, two British and two from New Zealand. There was also a selection of flat rubber stamps for entering various visas and entry and departure markings. Finally, there was a Colt government.380 pistol, which looked like a tiny model 1911.45, and half a dozen loaded magazines. All of this took up a space an inch and a half deep.

He closed the hidden compartment, set the case on his workbench and added other items: two changes of clothes, including a wash-and-wear suit, a pair of shoes and a folding felt hat. He was unaccustomed to running with such a small cache of things, but there was more in the airplane he had hangared on the island of Nevis, not so many miles away.

He had been surprised at the speed with which the police had shut down all departures from St. Marks, but he was equipped to deal with it. He removed the charger alligator clips from the battery of his new possession and made sure everything was ready to be quickly taken outside and assembled.

When he was satisfied that he was ready to run, if necessary, he stretched out on a cot and fell quickly asleep. He had always been able to do that.

DuBois rang the bell at the Pemberton house and waited impatiently for someone to answer it. No one came. “Bring me the tire iron from the car,” he called to his driver.

The man opened the rear of the vehicle and trotted over with the tool. “Here you are, Captain.”

DuBois was surprised at how long it took him to break into the house, and he made a mess of the door before he was finally able to open it. He walked into the living room, his pistol in hand, and looked around. It was all very ordinary. He checked the bedrooms and in the master found clothing for a man and a woman; the kitchen contained canned and frozen foods; there was no cellar. There was a fine coat of dust on everything, and it looked as if it had been weeks since anyone had been here, yet the immigration records he had checked put Pemberton, if not his wife, on the island.

He closed the door as best he could and got back into the Land Rover. “Next house: Weatherby, farther up the mountain,” he said to the driver.

They turned into the Weatherby driveway and stopped. This was a small house, once the guest quarters for the larger house owned by the American woman at the top of the mountain. He broke into the house, just as he had the Pemberton place.

Teddy was wakened from his nap by a tiny beeping; someone was upstairs. He watched the blinking lights on the panel that told him someone was walking from room to room. He decided not to be cornered; he let himself out of his redoubt, closed it up and left at a trot.

DuBois walked through the house, surprised. The house was furnished, but there was no indication that anyone had ever lived in it-no clothing, no food. He looked under the mattresses on the unmade beds: nothing. But Weatherby was supposed to be on the island, too, according to immigration records. Why was it that neither Pemberton nor Weatherby seemed to have been in his home-in the case of Pemberton, not recently; in the case of Weatherby, never?

He went back to the Land Rover.

“Where to, Captain?”

“Let’s go up the mountain; there’s an American woman living there.” He didn’t bother to check the garage.

The driver took him the few remaining yards and turned into the drive. DuBois noted an SUV and a pickup truck in the garage. He knocked on the door, and the American woman opened it.

“Yes, officer?” she asked.

“I am Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police,” he said politely. “May I come in?”

“Of course, Captain,” she said. “I’m Irene Foster.” She led him into the living room, where a man was sitting in a reclining chair with a beer in his hand, watching a golf tournament on television. He picked up a remote control and pressed a button, and Tiger Woods froze in mid-drive.

“Harold,” she said to him, “this is Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police. Captain, this is my friend Harold Pitts, who is visiting from the States.”

Pitts stood up and offered his hand, which duBois shook. “What can we do for you, Captain?”

“May I see your passports, please?”

“Sure; will you get mine, honey? It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”

“Of course,” Irene said, and left the room.

“How long have you been in St. Marks, Mr. Pitts?” duBois asked.

“Oh, less than a couple of weeks; I sailed down from Ft. Lauderdale in my boat.”

“What is your work, may I ask?”

“I’m retired; I used to have a home renovation business in Virginia,” he said. “Now I’m footloose and fancy-free.”

“How nice for you.”

The woman returned with the passports and handed them to him. “I’m a permanent resident,” she said. “I own this house.”

DuBois examined the passports closely, then handed them back. “They appear to be in order,” he said. “Where were the two of you earlier in the day?”

“I haven’t left the house all day,” she replied. “Harold went down to his boat at the English Harbour Marina, then came back.”

“I do a little work on it almost every day,” Pitts said.

DuBois found these people boring-elderly, retired Americans with no possible axe to grind with Croft. “Have you seen the occupants of the house next door recently?”

“I’ve never seen them,” Irene said. “I hear their name is Weatherby, but I don’t know if they’ve ever even moved in.”

“Thank you,” he said, rising. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

The woman showed him out, then returned.

“That had to be about Colonel Croft,” Pitts said to her.

“I would imagine so,” she replied. “They must be checking on all the foreigners.”

Pitts pressed a button, and Tiger Woods finished his drive, pulling it into the rough.

“Shit,” Pitts said.

On his way down the mountain, duBois stopped at number 56, the Robertson place, since his file said that he owned an airplane. He found it much the same as the Pemberton house. Where were all these people?