Lizards scampered noisily through the brittle dead leaves amid the overgrown tangle on both sides of the lane. Dusk had ridden away while Larson had shared drinks with Montgomery. The sky retained a smoky blue haze as a few determined stars struggled through. Rum pulsed inside him, competing with adrenaline and the lingering effects of the espresso. He longed for backup, but he’d already made that choice.
Despite what he’d let Hope think, he doubted he’d find Penny with Markowitz. The Romeros were too smart to lump together their assets. But Markowitz remained a possible link-a lead worth following-and Larson was intent on making that connection.
He moved off the narrow road of sand and crushed shell and ducked into the tangle of jungle plants. The ground was soft here and spongy beneath his feet.
OSPREY, the house sign announced above the front door. No lights on. No electric cart out front.
The sand in front of the home was cratered with water marks from heavy rain, undisturbed by either wheels or footprints and suggesting the OSPREY stood empty.
Larson carefully picked his way through the undergrowth, coming up on the north side of what, from Montgomery ’s directions, was The Sand Dollar. Constructed on stilts to survive a storm surge, the first floor of these homes stood twelve feet above sea level. Larson would have to climb either the front or back stairs to get any kind of look inside. Caged in by white-painted lattice fencing that surrounded the ground-level carport, a crusty golf-cart charger sat on the sand, its dial glowing, wires like sleeping snakes. The cart itself was missing, driven down to the marina-Larson thought-supporting what Montgomery had told him: One of the three had taken off unexpectedly. Alongside a rust-brown propane tank, two air-conditioning units rumbled and a pair of vinyl garbage cans overflowed with trash.
Above the loud drone of the air conditioner, Larson heard hurried footsteps overhead. Someone going up and down stairs. Shouting, although too muted to make out the words.
What if the other man had not left the island but instead was bringing the Valentis’ boat around in order to load up and evacuate the professor? What if Miller’s electronic probing had somehow been detected? Or what if Markowitz’s work was complete: Laena now fully decrypted? What if Markowitz himself was expected at the upcoming mob meeting?
A room light glowed from the first floor. Larson reached down and touched the butt of his Glock but did not arm himself.
For the next ten minutes he patiently awaited delivery of dinner from the inn. His ears whined. The air smelled sour; everything on this island was rotting at a different pace. A motor grumbled at a distance, and Larson thought he’d been right about the evacuation plan. But as it grew louder, it sounded more like a plane, and then all at once a seaplane flew past, low to the water, lights flashing, not thirty yards away. Larson took advantage of the noise and distraction to climb the back steps to The Sand Dollar.
There, his fears and his theory were confirmed as he nearly tripped over two rollerboard suitcases and a cardboard box stacked outside at the top of the stairs. Through a kitchen door that was primarily glass, he saw the kitchen countertops in disarray, glass and plastic bottles of every variety, from peanut butter to cranberry juice, some empty, some not, all lined up on a center island like soldiers. Fingerprints, he realized. Any surface capable of carrying a fingerprint had been brought out of the cupboards and sequestered. Wiped down, no doubt.
Close by now, the seaplane’s engines groaned in bursts. The aircraft had landed and was taxiing. Its engines finally wound down and fell silent. Larson had seen a long dock off the crescent beach and believed the seaplane likely had tied up there.
At that instant, a golf cart’s dim headlights broke the darkness of the lane. The vehicle motored silently up to the front of The Sand Dollar and a college kid climbed out and carried a tray up the front stairs. Larson heard the bell chime through the walls and waited first for the sound of feet approaching. A man’s back appeared, heading away from Larson down a peach and turquoise hallway toward the front door.
With the man’s back to him, Larson stepped around the luggage to the kitchen door and tried the knob. It turned. He pushed through and stepped inside, working to shut the door soundlessly behind himself.
Two careful steps took him deeper into the kitchen and away from any line of sight from the front door.
He connected the seaplane to the packed bags out on the porch. Markowitz’s handlers were moving him.
He slipped quietly into a small dining room. A large mirror was centered on the longest wall and held in a seashell frame. In the mirror’s reflection, Larson saw the man at the door in profile as he tipped the college kid, accepted the tray of food, and then, closing the door, set the tray on the floor. He turned away from it, showing no intention of eating it.
Larson heard the man’s quick ascent of the stairs and his arrival on the second floor. “Get it done!” the man hollered. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”
“It’s on its way now,” came another man’s strong voice. Older perhaps. Defiant. “It’s a large file. Several minutes at least. Just pack or whatever. Don’t rush me.”
Markowitz.
“They’re here now!” the younger voice said. “Just landed. They’ll be down here any minute to pick up our stuff. Hurry it up!”
“I said it’s on its way!” the old man replied. “There’s nothing I can do about transmission speed.”
Larson heard the distinctive clicking of furious typing at a keyboard. It’s on its way. Was that Laena he referred to? Transmission speed. Where, and to whom?
Seeing no other choice but to make his move, Larson withdrew his weapon and rounded the corner into the hallway. He slipped past the smells of a fish dinner and edged toward the staircase that rose to the second floor.
He took his first tentative step, his weapon aimed straight up the tunnel toward the two-possibly three-arguing men, heard but not yet seen.