Paul looks around the semicircle again. “I still don’t know what you’re all here for. To watch me put a bullet in him? I’d think you’d want to avoid that.”
Before anyone can answer, I hear the sound of a helicopter over the trees. The distinctive whup-whup-whup I recognize from my early reporting days as a Bell 206B JetRanger. I know of only two locally owned JetRangers: Matheson Lumber has one; the other is owned by Prime Shot Premium Hunting Gear. Since Paul is the pilot for Matheson Lumber, I assume the pilot of the JetRanger overhead must be Wyatt Cash, the owner of the island beneath our feet.
Standing at the edge of the pavilion, I see a white nose-light boring in from the east. Red running lights appear behind it. Twenty seconds later, the JetRanger becomes discernible against the clouds, descending fast. Several men stand and turn away from the rotor blast while the chopper flares and lands in the space between the camp house and the pavilion, throwing up a hurricane of pinecones, pea gravel, and grit. If it hadn’t rained earlier, the storm of debris would be worse.
Sure enough, the white JetRanger has the Prime Shot logo painted behind its door. As we stare, the aircraft’s big side door pops open. A man wearing paramilitary gear gets out, then helps someone to the ground.
It’s Jet.
While I stare in shock, the guy in body armor reaches back inside and helps a heavy black woman to the ground. Tallulah Williams. Last of all comes Kevin Matheson, who leaps easily to the ground, looking around like a kid stunned to find himself on a night adventure.
Turning to Paul, I see but one emotion in his face: fear.
Chapter 55
“What the fuck is my son doing here?” Paul asks, standing rigid as a man waiting to be horsewhipped.
“You’ll see,” Beau Holland says over his shoulder.
Holland doesn’t realize how close he is to death at this moment.
Two guards appear behind Paul. One takes the pistol from the small of his back. The other checks his ankles for a holster. Apparently they knew Max’s carrying habits. Sure enough, they find a second gun. Paul must have put on Max’s ankle holster before or after we loaded his corpse into the truck. While they set aside Paul’s weapons, another guard wraps an iron-hard arm around me and snatches Nadine’s .32 automatic from my pocket. Paul and I make momentary eye contact, but if he’s sending me a message, I’m too thick to translate it. Paul didn’t protest being stripped of his guns because he knows there’s nothing he can do at this point but make a suicidal stand. And until he knows Buckman’s intentions regarding his family, he won’t do that.
His eyes go wide, however, when two armed guards take hold of Kevin and Tallulah and lead them into the main lodge. When Jet tries to follow, another guard restrains her and marches her toward the pavilion. There’s a scuffle as Tallulah resists being led into the lodge, and Kevin tries to help her, but the guards quickly subdue both the maid and the boy. I can’t help but feel that Paul is marking these transgressions on an internal ledger that he will square if it takes the rest of his life—however short that may be.
“Where are they taking my boy?” he asks softly.
“Kevin’s fine,” Buckman says. “He’s safe.”
“For now,” adds Holland. “Let’s see how this goes.”
As the chopper’s engine spools down, Wyatt Cash climbs out of the pilot’s seat and trots across the ground, catching up to Jet as she’s led into the pavilion. Cash seems surprised by the size of the gathering, and even more so by the mood of the men, which feels like the quiet before a crack of lightning.
In the threatening silence, Jet looks up and sees Nadine on the TV screen. “Oh, my God,” she whispers. “What have you done to her?”
“What do you care?” Holland asks. “You gave her up to us.”
“Sweet Jesus.” She looks at me. “I’m so sorry, Marshall.”
“We may do the same to you yet,” Holland says, and I see Paul shift his weight.
Jet scowls at the real estate developer with contempt. “You sick bastard.”
If Paul weren’t here, I have no doubt that Holland would have struck her for that. Instead he walks to the fireplace and comes back with a roll of duct tape. While a guard holds Jet’s head, Beau rips off a length and tapes her mouth shut. Wyatt Cash looks like he’s about to protest, but Buckman waves a hand, silencing him.
“There’s no call for this,” Paul says to Buckman. “No reason for it.”
“Here’s the thing, Paul,” croaks the old banker. “Nadine Sullivan poses no further threat to us. Neither does Marshall. The X factor is your wife.”
“My wife? How do you figure that?”
“She was close to your mother. She’s a lawyer. She’s been trying to nail our asses for years. If Max hadn’t been protecting her, she’d have had an accident a long time ago. She’s the natural person for Sally to give another copy of this cache to.”
“She doesn’t have it, Claude.”
“Well, Paulie,” Russo chimes in, “you gotta forgive us if your word isn’t quite enough. You’re probably the last person who’d know what Jet’s really up to. In fact, Marshall here’s probably the only one who would.”
“She doesn’t have it, guys,” I tell them. “Seriously.”
Holland laughs, as do several other men—Warren Lacey the loudest.
Buckman signals Holland with a nod, and Beau picks up the TV remote again. The image changes from Nadine in the skinning room to security camera footage of a long balcony. It’s the interior of the Aurora Hotel. The mezzanine. The view is from above, shooting along the balcony rail. The screen flickers as Holland presses a button to fast-forward. Two figures hurry along the rail at quadruple speed, and it’s hard to make out what’s going on. Then Holland removes his finger, bringing the playback to normal.
Panic hits me all at once, sending adrenaline shunting through my veins. Jet’s eyes have gone wide above the duct tape, but I can’t read her emotions. Fear, yes, but something else, too. The desperate drive for survival. She senses how close we are to being killed. Paul doesn’t yet know what’s coming, but he will any second.
On the screen, a woman who is unmistakably Jet leans against the rail in profile and hikes her dress over her hips. From the side she looks like a textbook illustration of lordosis, the behavior during which female mammals arch their backs and make themselves most receptive to being mounted by males. She glances back over her shoulder and speaks. I say something, then turn and walk away from her. The camera follows me.
“How about that tracking function?” Holland marvels. “Tommy’s casino contractor set us up with pan-tilt-zoom rigs.”
Paul stares wordlessly at this further evidence of his wife’s infidelity—or desire for it. The view switches to a different camera, this one apparently near the service elevator. Now we’re looking straight-on at Jet’s behind, the dark tangle below the cleft in her derriere shockingly visible, even with the thong.
“I don’t appreciate everybody looking at my wife’s ass,” Paul says quietly.
Holland chuckles. “If she didn’t spread it around like she does, we wouldn’t have to.”