“Health,” I suggested.
Skylar mulled that over while the drone gained ground. I knew she’d reached my conclusion when her face contorted. “You mean like organ harvesting for some secret medical procedure?”
“That might explain why lookalikes are required. I’m not an expert on the intricacies of transplantation, but beyond matching blood types I’m sure it’s best if the donor is young and of a similar size. By that logic, maybe other appearance-related attributes help make a perfect match.”
“If that were the case, Tory would have—” she grimaced, “violated me before shoving me into an oven.”
“Maybe before I got there he ran some sort of tissue compatibility test, and you failed.”
“He didn’t mention anything about tests or tissue compatibility when we interrogated him.”
“It was in his best interests to provide the prosecution with as little detail as possible.”
“Still seems thin.”
“I agree. But we’ll learn soon enough, one way or another.”
The island came into view after eight minutes, rather than the five the published maximum speed predicted. We knew it was Seven Star by the shape, which was a cross between a kidney bean and a chili pepper, matching what we’d seen on Google.
Skylar had the drone flying at an altitude of 1,000 feet, so it couldn’t be heard and wouldn’t be noticed with a casual skyward glance. She disengaged the autopilot and began a broad circle.
Half the island was covered with natural vegetation, the other half was landscaped. She narrated, since she was holding the controller with its video screen. “I see two piers, but only one boat and it’s a go-fast, not a yacht. The tiltrotor we saw on Google is also gone.”
“Sounds like the mistress isn’t home.”
“Is that good or bad?” Skylar asked.
I waggled my hand. “Could go either way. Depends on the disposition of the people left behind. If there are any.”
“You think she’ll return anytime soon?”
“I expect so. We know she was there yesterday when she opened our email. With money like that, she probably treats flights to the mainland like you and I do drives to the grocery store. Just part of the daily routine. With a tiltrotor, it would be just as fast.”
The drone’s remote control beeped after it circled the island twice, then its screen pulsed yellow. “We’ve reached the return to base limit. In thirty seconds it won’t have sufficient power to reach the takeoff point.”
“We don’t need it back—and neither does Tory.”
Skylar elbowed me, but continued to circle.
“I don’t see any people. Have you spotted any?” I asked, studying the screen from over Skylar’s shoulder.
“Not yet. Should I take it lower?”
“How much battery do we have?”
“Just six minutes. The 28-minute spec is way too optimistic.”
“Yes. Start with the secondary structures, which I assume are for guests and servants, including guards.”
Skylar took the drone down and inspected the cottages. They were situated in a semicircular formation around the back side of the house, the side away from the beach and the pool. She did a flyby on one side, then the other, peering through windows and one open door. Nothing stirred. No one came into view. “Three minutes.”
“Now the main house.”
She took the drone halfway around so we could peer into the living room but pulled back and up prematurely when three people appeared on the screen. They were lounging in the part of the pool that was under a sunshade. “The mistress is home.”
“Doesn’t look like anyone spotted the drone. They’d be looking up if they did. In fact, I think they’re sleeping. The guards must be too, if she has any,” I added, exposing my wishful thinking.
The remote started pulsing red. “We’re down to one minute of battery life. In sixty seconds the drone will automatically land.”
“Let’s risk a look through the big window at the back.”
Skylar made a wide arc, then dropped to a hundred feet and zoomed in on the house. The back window was actually a series of ten heavy-duty sliding glass doors, all parted now to open up the back room. Skylar focused the camera on a scene that looked like a still life oil painting from the time of Henry VIII. A table was piled high with fancy foods on silver service, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. Not a waiter. Not a cook.
“Switch back to the people in the pool.” The remote turned solid red as I spoke.
“The battery is exhausted,” Skylar said. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s safe for us to pay a visit.”
73
Perfect Sense
TORY’S HEART SANK as he piloted his stolen go-fast boat within sight of Seven Star’s two piers. No yachts were docked. No people apparent. That left the tiltrotor he’d seen in Google’s satellite shot as his best hope of catching Aria at home, but he couldn’t see the helipad from his current position.
Tory had sent half a dozen emails to Aria’s address. Emails that would look like junk mail if opened, but ones that would slip through filters since she was the only recipient. He’d sent each from a different email. Fresh accounts from the major public providers.
The tactic worked.
He’d acted the minute he learned her location, knowing that Chase and Skylar would be close behind. This forced him to forgo a hospital stay in favor of a cursory exam and quick clean-up from a concierge doctor. Not a big deal. His left eye remained useless, but what could a doctor do? If surgery was an option he’d have that later. Meanwhile, his right eye was fully functional.
His goal was to make the leap from outside consultant to inside confidant by confronting his employers in person. First he’d show them the battle scars he’d suffered on their behalf; then he’d warn them of the impending threat. Their gratitude and guilt, combined with his obvious value and intimate knowledge, should guarantee him either a sweet contract as their permanent fixer or a payoff suitable for a king’s ransom.
The thought of ransom drew his eyes to where his raw wrists rested on the wheel. Breaking out of the oven while hog-tied had been a most unpleasant experience—albeit highly preferable to the alternative.
Chase had played him masterfully. Tory had to give the American credit.
By teaming up with Aria, Tory would also solve the dilemma his charitable captors had created. As things stood, Tory was honor-bound not to pursue the meddlesome couple, despite what they’d done to him. Fair was fair, and he wasn’t one to break the code. But if they came to him…well, then the counter reset to zero and the game started anew.
And come to him they would, right there on Seven Star Island.
He managed to dock without attracting attention. Securing the ropes involved a few fast back-and-forth leaps. Nothing too tough, but strenuous enough that he paused afterward to apply a bit more salve to each wrist and ankle. He pulled the burn ointment from his pocket as well, intent on giving his facial wounds a fresh shellacking, but decided to leave them angry. Best to let his employers see the scars in their full glory.
Not really sure what to expect, but full of confidence in his ability to cope come what might, Tory tucked his new handgun into the small of his back and headed up the flagstones toward the house. He spotted no one along the way.
Aria’s front door was an intricate ornamental arrangement of glass panes and carved exotic hardwood. Probably cost as much as the average car. He peered through but saw no movement. He looked for a doorbell but didn’t find one. Of course. This was a private island.