Ed grabbed his carryall, quickly let himself outside onto the surrounding porch, ran to the corner of the house, and peeked around it. A small helicopter was setting down on the square floating dock. Two figures alit from the copter and began walking up the floating boardwalk toward the house.
A quick look around ascertained for him that he could not leave the house anywhere except on the side facing the road. He was looking for a place to jump where a landing might not break a leg, when he heard heavy footsteps on the front stairway and the sound of the front door opening.
Ed considered just flinging himself off the elevated porch into the darkness and hoping for the best, but he reconsidered. They were coming up the stairs to the second floor now. Ed crept around the corner and began moving around the house toward the corner of the porch facing the sea. He had to go slowly for fear of making a noise.
He caught a glimpse of the twins’ backs as they turned toward their bedroom, then he continued, now walking faster.
Then he heard a voice. “Is that your duct tape on the floor by the bed?”
“No,” came the reply.
Ed reached the end of the porch and saw a drainpipe coming down from the roof. He swung a leg over the railing, dropped his carryall, grasped the drainpipe, and slid down it like a fireman answering an alarm, making some noise in the process.
He knew he couldn’t run through the blueberry patch, so he ran for the floating boardwalk, dashed down it to the pontoon, and launched into a dive. A split second before hitting the water he heard a shout from the house, but he couldn’t tell what was said. He dove into the black water and swam for the bottom, which happened at about four feet. He swam along it, waiting for the gunshots to find him, but nothing happened. He swam past the outer floating dock, bobbed up long enough to grab a breath, then went down deeper. He reckoned he had eight feet now, but he couldn’t hold his breath much longer, what with the exertion.
Then, above his head, the water began to explode.
39
Ed swam, his lungs bursting, until he bumped his head hard on the hull of his boat. Breathing hard, he pulled himself along the deck to the stern, where there was a boarding ladder. Arriving there, he realized that he had left the dock lights on and one of them hung directly over the boat, illuminating every square foot of it.
Ed breathed hard for another half a minute, to get enough air into his lungs to shout, then he hollered,
“Sally!” No response. Once more. “Sally!”
She opened the door wide and stood there, sheltered from the view from the house next door. “Ed?”
“Turn off the dock lights, then the inside lights, and stay low and well away from the windows.”
“Done!” she shouted back and closed the door. A moment later the dock lights went off, then the interior lights. Ed, who was freezing now, pulled out the boarding ladder built into the stern, climbed up and over, and lay in the darkened cockpit, heaving in air and trying to gain strength. Finally, he was able to crawl forward through the saloon and down the companionway ladder to the head below, where he showered off the salt water and rubbed himself down with a thick, dry towel. Then he shucked off his wet clothes and wrapped the towel around himself, waiting for what remained of his body heat to warm him.
That done, he found a change of clothes and got into some khakis and a polo shirt, dry underwear and socks, and a spare pair of Top-Siders. He found a bucket and stuffed his wet clothes into it, and tossed it into the cockpit. He crawled back up the stairs and into the saloon, where he found a bottle of whiskey, poured himself one, and sat on the floor, drinking it and pondering his circumstances. He had one more lap to run in this race: from the boat, up the boardwalk, across the front porch, and into the house, where the thought of a warm woman waiting helped him recover his strength.
He transferred his pocket things from wet to dry pockets, then he realized that somewhere, on the run or the swim over, he had lost his 9mm auto from its holster. He made his way back below, and using his flashlight, lifted the mattress on the double bunk, tapped in the combination of the safe there, and retrieved a.380 pistol and another belt and holster. He strapped it on, secured the safe, and crawled back above.
He resisted the temptation of another drink, since he had to be able to run another twenty yards pretty quickly. Finally, he peeped over the instrument panel and at the twins’ house. Nobody on the wraparound porch, nobody visible inside.
“What the hell,” he said aloud to himself. He stood up, grabbed the bucket and carryall, then placed his other hand on the gunwale and vaulted onto the dock. He ran and simultaneously yanked the small pistol from its holster. He made the porch and stood with his back flat against the front door, panting. The door was locked. He knocked sharply on it. “Sally? Open up!”
He heard the latch work, then the door opened, and she yanked him inside by his belt. They wrapped around each other. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” she said.
“I’ll work on that,” he replied.
“You need a drink.”
“You’re right.”
Still keeping low, they both had a drink.
“The lights are off over there,” Sally said, getting to her knees and looking toward the twins’ house. “I expect they’ve gone to bed.”
Ed got up, closed the blinds, and turned on one small lamp. Then it came to him: the twins’ bed. He emptied his carryall, fished around, and came up with the little radio controller for the detonators. He took a breath and pushed the button. Nothing. The little red light had not illuminated. Well, the thing had just taken a swim in salt water, hadn’t it?
He found some batteries, tossed the old ones, then went into the bathroom and rinsed the radio thoroughly, then pointed the hair dryer at the radio until it was dry and warm to the touch, then he inserted the fresh batteries. Waited a minute. He wanted to see this happen. He went back into the living room, switched off the lamp, then pulled back the curtains. “Watch this,” he said to Sally. “I hope they’re in bed.” He pressed the button on the radio. The red light came on and stayed on. Nothing else happened. “Shit!” he screamed.
“What’s wrong?” Sally asked.
“The house was supposed to explode.”
“Well, that was uncooperative of it, then.”
“The duct tape,” he said.
“What duct tape?”
“I dropped it in the hurry to get out. They found it and figured out what it was for.”
“What was it for?”
“To hold a block of plastique in place under their bed.” The phone rang and Ed grabbed it, half expecting it to be the twins. “Yeah?”
“It’s Stone. Is something supposed to happen?”
“Yeah,” Ed replied, “only I fucked up, and in a big way.”
“Explain, please.”
Ed explained.
“I thought the pros knew to clean up after themselves when they’ve left a bomb under somebody’s bed.”
“I believe they covered that in explosives class, but in my haste not to get shot, I neglected to check off that box.”
“I take it you didn’t get shot?”