21
At precisely seven o’clock the doorbell rang, and Stone answered it. “Good evening, Ed,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.
“It better be,” Rawls replied gruffly, “to get me out of my comfortable chair.”
“There’s a comfortable chair right over there,” Stone replied, nodding. “Right next to the pretty girl. Meg, this is Ed Rawls. Ed, Meg Harmon.”
Rawls shook her hand. “Of Harmony Software?”
Meg looked surprised. “That’s right.”
“We get the Wall Street Journal up here, you know—the New York Times, too.”
“And I thought this was the far north,” Meg said, laughing. “I suppose you’re on the Internet, too.”
“Couldn’t live without it,” Rawls said, accepting a glass of Knob Creek from Stone. “I do most of my shopping online, and all of my correspondence.”
“Ed is surprisingly computer literate,” Stone said, “for somebody as ancient as he is.”
“You’ll be ancient one day, too, Stone,” Rawls said, raising his glass and taking a deep swig of the bourbon. “But not you, Meg.”
“You’d better not leave me alone with this guy, Stone,” Meg said, laughing.
“Damn right,” Rawls replied. “I’d have your knickers off before you knew it.”
Stone laughed. “Ed, I think you’ve been spending too much time alone.”
“Oh, I’ve got a widow stashed in Camden, gets over to the island most weekends. I keep my hand in—so to speak.”
“Stone tells me you were CIA,” Meg said.
“Oh, I had a careerful of that work, until I got sent to prison.”
“Stone, you didn’t tell me Ed was an ex-con,” Meg said.
“Damn right I am. I got life and did a few years of it, until the truth came out and I got a presidential pardon. Now I’m back in everybody’s good graces—everybody who counts, anyway.” Rawls looked at Stone. “So, pal, what’re you doing up here? Somebody after you?” He turned back to Meg. “Stone only comes up here when somebody is after him.”
“Not this time,” Meg said. “They’re not after Stone, they’re after me.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“A guy who was once my business partner, who thinks he should be as rich as I am.”
“Is this a shootin’ war?” Rawls asked.
“I’m afraid it is,” Stone said. “The ex-partner has hired somebody. If you see a couple around here—he’s six-three or -four, skinny, curly hair, going gray. She’s five-eight, with the usual equipment—sing out, will you?”
“These people have names?”
“Dirty Joe Cross and Jungle Jane, no last name. He’s a pro, but fortunately not the ultimate pro. He’s tried twice and failed.”
“That’s encouraging,” Ed said. “An inept assassin’s not much good to anybody.”
“That’s so,” Stone agreed.
“But if he keeps at it,” Rawls said, “sooner or later he’ll get lucky, and lucky is just as good as good.”
“You’re a pessimist, Ed,” Meg said.
“I’m so sorry,” Rawls replied, “am I casting a shadow of gloom over the party? I hope the fuck so.”
“No, Ed, you’re right,” Stone said. “We’re taking precautions.”
“Well, this house is a good start, as precautions go,” Rawls replied. “Has he told you about this house, Meg?”
“No,” she said, “but maybe it’s time he did.”
“The house was built by my first cousin,” Stone said. “He was a higher-up in the CIA, so the Agency took an interest in how it was built and contributed to its design and construction.”
“That means the framing is steel clad,” Rawls interjected, “and the windows are bulletproof.”
“He left the house to a foundation that contributes to the welfare of the families of agents who died in the line of duty,” Stone explained, “but he also left me lifetime occupancy. Eventually, when I could afford it, I bought the place from the foundation.”
“And added it to the Barrington collection?” Meg asked.
“No, this was before the collection. It was my first second home.”
“We don’t see near enough of him up here,” Rawls said. “Like I said, he only shows up when somebody’s after him—or in this case, after you.”
The tinkle of a silver bell interrupted them.
“That’s dinner,” Stone said. “Ed, I hope you’re still taking your steak rare.”
“I like it too weak to move around,” Rawls replied.
They went in to dinner.
JANE LET herself into their hotel suite and found Joe at the computer.
“You find some clothes for Maine?” he asked her.
“Enough. What did you find?”
“I nailed down the Bonanza at Teterboro,” he replied, “and I found us just the right boat for charter in Rockland.”
“What kind of boat?”
“A Hinckley picnic boat, a thirty-four-footer with a little galley and a double berth.”
“Fast?”
“It’s got twin 320s, and it’ll crank out thirty-five knots, in a panic, a little less at cruise rpms. The renters were impressed with my Coast Guard captain’s license.”
“Is there a gun shop in Rockland?”
“Is there a town anywhere in this country where there isn’t a gun shop?”
“Right,” she said. “What’s our schedule?”
“We pick up the airplane at nine AM. I’ve booked a car and driver to get us to Teterboro. I’ll have to do a little pattern work to show them I can fly the thing, but we’ll be headed north before lunch.”
“How long a flight?”
“An hour or so, I guess. I’ve booked a rental car at the Rockland airport, then we’ll take possession of the boat, and you can go gun shopping. We’ll sleep aboard, then case Islesboro from the water the following morning.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll make a plan. Oh, one other thing—there’s an operating quarry near Rockland. We might be able to put our hands on some explosives tonight. That will give us more options.”
“Options are a good thing,” Jane said, “but I’d settle for one clear shot at Miss Meg.”
“So would I,” Joe replied.