"But is my father all right?" Evan said. He was sweating. It seemed hard for him to get his lips under control.
"Waaann hunnnnert t'ouusaanndd..." the voice hissed. "Leeffttt onnnn theee noooommmbbber nine buoy oonnn the chhhannnell. Byyyy tenn-thhhirty tommorroowww."
Evan's look at Detective Fairchild was desperate. "One hundred thousand dollars," he repeated, "left on the number nine buoy in the Port of Palm Beach Channel at ten-thirty tomorrow night."
"Nnoooo pollisss. No ppolllosss. Orrr..." A sudden scream, agony-filled, clearly male, blared from the receiver. Evan dropped it with a shout. There was a click and then the dial tone droned implacably.
"Did you hear him, Detective?" Evan's voice was high and uncontrolled. He stopped, put his hands over his face, and took several deep breaths. When he took his hands away, his face was pale, but calmer. "You didn't hear it all. He said that if we didn't get that money there, tomorrow night, without police involvement, they'll send Dad back to us. Piece by piece." He shuddered.
There was a clatter and thump. Quill turned. Corrigan had fainted.
"Cor!" Evan leaped for his brother. The two medics stepped over the stretcher and knelt by him. "Don't touch him! Leave him alone!" Evan shoved one medic aside and snarled at the other to move. He cradled Corrigan's head in one hand and slapped him lightly, swiftly across the cheeks with the other. "Cory," he said. "Cory!"
"Good God," Meg said, "this is terrible."
Quill went quietly to Evan's side. She knelt next to him and touched him on the shoulder. "Evan? Evan." The boy turned to her with dilated eyes, not seeming to see her at first, free hand raised, the other still fiercely clutching his brother's head. Quill closed her hand over his. "Here. He's just fainted. Let him down. Gently. That's it. Let me take him. You see how his eyelids are fluttering open? The shock's just been too much for him." She looked around. "Anyone have any smelling salts, or whatever it's called?"
"Ammonia carbonate," said one of the medics. He was a slight man, with a pencil-thin mustache and sympathetic brown eyes. He pulled an ampule from his breast pocket, broke it, and waved it under Corrigan's nose. The boy coughed and his eyelids opened and closed. The color began to seep back into his face and he sat up. Evan grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Cor! Cor! It's me. Evan! Wake up. Wake up!"
Corrigan held up his hand and nodded. He sat up, then shakily got to his feet. Quill, still on her knees, thought she had never seen anyone look so pale.
"Dad?" Corrigan said.
"Dad's going to be all right, Cor." Evan, fiercely determined, hugged him. "We're going to get him back. We're going to get the money."
"How?" asked Corrigan simply. "We don't have any. Where are we going to get it? Where are we going to get a hundred thousand dollars?"
"We'll get it, Cor."
"But it's all Dad's! And that will take time! And they said no police! How are we going to get Dad out of this mess without involving the police?"
For the first time since Quill had met him, Evan showed some of his father's behavior. He snapped his fingers. "Hawthorne. Hawthorne!"
There had been two men in three-piece suits conferring with Evan and Corrigan just before Meg had found Maria in the closet. The older of them wound his way through the crowd of policemen, medics, and technicians surrounding Evan and his brother. "Yes, Evan."
"I want my brother and myself out of here. Right now."
"Okay. Who exactly is in charge here?"
"Jerry Fairchild," Evan said. "Fairchild?"
"Right here, Mr. Taylor."
"Clear this room. My brother and I want to talk with you alone." His gaze swept over Quill; he didn't see her. "Everyone out of here. Now."
It was another forty minutes before Meg and Quill were allowed to leave. The police ushered them - accompanied by Maria - back into the kitchen. A detailed statement about their activities was taken from them. They gave their current address and the address in Hemlock Falls. Ange, who'd returned from taking Shirl and Beth back to Beth's home, volunteered to see them to their car and follow them out the gate.
"It's sweet of you, Ange," Meg said flippantly. "But we can manage to drive home alone." She looked critically at Quill. "Although if I look as bad as she does, I can see why you're concerned."
"It's not that, miss. It's the crowd outside the gates. We can prevent the media from coming onto a crime scene, but you're going to be mobbed once you leave here."
"Oh, my God," Meg said in disgust. "You might give us an escort at that, Ange. Just to Beach Road. We can take it from there. But you'd better alert the medics." She grinned. "I'm so flipped out by all of this that I'm going to break a solemn vow and let my sister drive."
-9-
Quill sat in a lounge chair overlooking the Atlantic and sipped orange juice. It was late, after ten o'clock in the morning. The sun was high overhead. The French doors were open to the breezes, and she could hear Meg clattering away in the kitchen. There was a brief hiatus, the patter of her bare feet, and then she came out onto the terrace. "Try this." She held out a quarter-cup of dark. strong-smelling liquid.
"No," Quill said. She folded her legs under her and started at the horizon. The clouds looked iffy. News about the weather had been supplanted by the disappearance/kidnapping of Verger Taylor and (less interesting from the media's points of view) the murder of the security guard. Although the tropical storm had been officially upgraded to a grade one hurricane, it was languishing somewhere off the coast of Puerto Rico and was not supposed to pose a threat, except in the minds of the weather anchors, who'd been vainly trying to scrape up a little bit of pleasurable terror all morning with possibilities of doom, death, and destruction. "There'll be rain later in the day, though," Quill said aloud.
"What? The so-called hurricane? I told you," Meg said with splendid inaccuracy, "that it wasn't going to show up here. Now, taste this. Quill! Come on! Please? Just a teeny, tiny taste."
"Meg, for heaven's sake. This is the third marinade recipe I've tried for you this morning and I hate it! It's horrible having all this strong stuff before I'm even awake."
"Just tell me what you think. I added something really different."
Quill groaned, carefully took the stainless steel cup, and sipped. "Rum," she said. "You added rum."
"What do you think?"
" Actually, I like it better than the brandy. Besides, it's less expensive."
"You do? Like it better than the brandy?"
"I really doubt, with all this upset about the kidnapping and with the Institute closed for electrical repairs, that Tiffany's going ahead with the banquet. I don't know why you're fiddling with the marinade, anyhow. You can't get to the rabbits until tomorrow morning and even then, they're already marinating-oh, forget it."
"You're right, of course. I'm giving up the whole idea. The third star would look better on a gravestone, under these circumstances." Meg tossed the remainder of the marinade over the terrace railing. It landed on a pair of peach double hibiscus and turned them an unpleasant brown.
"Now look what you've done," Quill scolded, mildly. She gave Meg's hand an affectionate squeeze. She knew how much the possibility of being rated had meant to her.