“Later than you think,” Matthew said.
Outside, an incoming wave broke with a thunderous crash. There was the whispering sound of the ocean retreating. And then silence again.
“I made some phone calls before coming here,” Matthew said. “To all the rental-car companies in town. Well, not all of them, I struck pay dirt on the sixth call.”
“Mr. Hope, I’m sorry, really…”
Blue eyes wide with innocence. Puzzled boyish look on his face.
“… but I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you know what I’m talking about, Kit.”
“No, really, I…”
“I’m talking about the car you rented.”
“Car?”
The way he said that single word. The regional dialect. Caah. Paak the caah in Haavaad Yaad. The same way he must have said alarmed when he was talking on the phone to Stubbs. Alaaamed.
“The one you rented on August thirteenth,” Matthew said. “An Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with the license plate ZAB 39…”
The racket was in Howell’s hand before Matthew could complete the sentence. His right hand. Shake hands with the racket. The racket firm in his grip. He had a powerful forehand and a devastating backhand, and moreover he was ambidextrous. Matthew suddenly knew which blunt instrument had crushed Frank Bannion’s skull.
“So let me hear your game plan,” Howell said, and swung the racket at Matthew’s head.
Matthew had no game plan.
The racket came at him edgewise. Howell wasn’t trying to hit a ball, he wasn’t concerned about meeting a ball solidly on the strings, never mind a sweet spot, the sweet spot was Matthew’s head. Howell was concerned only with inflicting damage. The aluminum frame of the racket, for all its lightness, was thick enough and dense enough and strong enough to knock plaster out of the wall. Which is exactly what it did in the next second because Matthew did the only thing he could do, he sidestepped and ducked. The plaster flew out in a large solid chunk, exposing naked lath and what looked like chicken wire behind it. Howell danced away, positioning himself for his next shot.
“Guess which hand?” he said, and grinned, and tossed the racket into his left hand and then immediately tossed it back to the right. He was bouncing on his bare feet. Priming himself for the big match. Matthew did not want his skull to become the U.S. Open.
If your opponent is armed, and you’re not…
Bloom’s voice. In the gym this past Tuesday. Teaching him the tricks of the trade. Teaching him a game plan.
Don’t try to disarm him. You’II be dead before you figure out how.
Howell was bouncing. Circling. Tossing the racket back and forth between his hands. Guess which hand? Where will it be coming from? The right or the left?
Forget the weapon.
But the next one was going to be an ace.
The next one was going to crush Matthew’s skull.
Go for the man.
Howell was pulling the racket back for the shot. It was going to be a left-handed shot, and it was going to be a backhand shot. Matthew had seen that backhand in action. Its force could tear off his head. Arm crossing Howell’s chest now, racket coming back, mouth set in a tight line, eyes blazing, arm coiled like a spring, in a moment he would unleash the shot, the arm would unfold, the edge of the racket…
Matthew hit him while the racket was still back.
Threw his shoulder into Howell while his weight was still on the back foot. Surprised, Howell staggered for an instant, trying to keep his balance, the racket still back, the weight on that right foot, the proper form for the shot, his full body weight working against him now, fighting against gravity and losing as he went crashing to the floor. He landed solidly on his right hip and was rolling over when Matthew stomped on his groin. He did not kick him in the groin, he stomped him. He did not use the point of his shoe, he used the heel. Stomped his balls flat into the carpet, the way Bloom had taught him.
Breathing hard, Matthew went to the telephone.
Howell was still writhing on the floor.
It was a little after two in the morning when he got to the farm on Timucuan Point Road. Not a light showing in any of the buildings. Not in the main house, not in the guest cottage at the far end of the road, where Ned Weaver lived. Matthew rang the doorbell. He kept ringing it. A light went on at the other end of the house. The bedroom. He kept ringing the doorbell.
“Who is it?”
Jessica’s voice. Just inside the door.
“Matthew Hope.”
“What?”
“Please open the door.”
“What? What?”
Incredulously. This was two o’clock in the morning.
“Please open the door, Mrs. Leeds.”
Silence.
Then: “Just a minute.”
He waited. It took almost five minutes for her to open the door. She had undoubtedly gone back to the bedroom to put on the robe she now wore over her nightgown. Green nylon. Over white nylon. Barefooted. The way Howell had been barefooted when he’d opened the door to his place.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked.
“Yes, I do,” Matthew said. “May I come in?”
“Why?”
“Because the police have just arrested Christopher Howell and charged him with five counts of homicide. There are some questions I’d like to ask you, Mrs. Leeds.”
“What questions?” she said.
“We both want your husband cleared,” he said. “I just want to make sure Howell doesn’t try to implicate him.”
He was lying.
“Howell?” she said. “Kit, do you mean? The tennis pro at the club?”
She was lying, too.
“May I come in, please?” he said.
“Yes, certainly. Forgive me, I… I was asleep… all that ringing… I didn’t mean to be rude. Kit, did you say? What does he have to do with any of this?”
From the switch panel just outside the entrance to the living room, she turned on the lights and then led him in. She sat on the leather sofa. He sat in a leather easy chair opposite her. There was a large green pillow behind her, the color of her eyes, the color of her robe. He remembered that the lady favored green.
“I just drove out from the police station,” he said. “They’re trying to locate Skye Bannister so he’ll be there for the formal Q,and A. He’s down in Sanibel for the weekend, they’re not sure where.”
“Skye…?”
“Bannister. The State Attorney. His office is going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
“I still don’t understand…”
“Howell confessed to the murders.”
“Kit?”
“Yes.”
“Amazing.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Such a quiet, unassuming person,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Why would he have… are you saying he killed all of them?”
“Yes.”
“He’s admitted that?”
“Yes.”
“Amazing,” she said again.
The room went silent. The house was still. She sat in the center of the sofa, looking at him, her hands clasped in her lap. He sat opposite her, watching her.
“And you think he may try to implicate Stephen?” she said.
“Yes.”
Lying again.
“How?”
“He might claim Stephen put him up to it.”
“Has he done that?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Well… what has he said?”
“I told you. He’s confessed to killing the three men who raped you…”
“Yes, I understand that part of it.”