the Cape’s offshore keys. Accessible only by water, the island has on it a small, eccentric boater’s paradise known as Marina Blue, some thirty minutes away and 10,000 miles distant from U.S. 41. Some four or five years ago, the family spent a long, cherished weekend on Crescent, and the memories of that happy time are still with her.
She parks the black Mercedes truck in a space for about five or six cars, near the air hoses, gets out—and hesitates.
For a fleeting instant, she wishes she’d taken with her the snubnosed .32-caliber pistol Eddie gave her as a birthday present the year they moved down here. Instead, it is resting under her lingerie in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser back home.
But they have the children, she thinks.
The children will die, she thinks.
She shakes her head, pulls back her shoulders, walks briskly into the convenience area. The guy behind the counter there gives her a look as she limps past toward the rear of the building, following the sign that indicates RESTROOMS . He does not appreciate cripples limping in here to use the toilets without buying either gas or food. Alice is carrying the small Louis Vuitton bag, decorated with its repeated LV monogram, and stuffed at the moment with 2,500 fake hundred-dollar bills “so good nobody can tell them from the real thing”—she hopes.
A black woman is at the coffee machine, filling a cardboard container. She is some five feet seven inches tall, Alice guesses, as tall and as slim as a proud Masai woman. Wearing a very short green mini and a white T-shirt. Good firm thighs and shapely calves tapering to slender ankles in strappy flat sandals. Oversized sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat that hides half her face. Wide gold bracelet on the biceps of one dark, rounded arm. Alice wonders if this is the woman she’s been talking to on the phone.
“Morning,” the woman says, and smiles.
Alice does not recognize the voice.
“Morning,” she answers, and goes to the door marked WOMEN , and tries the knob.
“Occupied,” the woman says.
Alice still does not recognize the voice.
“Are you waiting?” she asks.
“Nope,” the woman says.
The door to the ladies’ room opens. A fat woman in a flowered dress comes out, smiles at both of them, and then goes toward the front of the building. The black woman is now putting sugar into her coffee. Alice goes into the ladies’ room.
The room is an entirely gray entity. Gray tile floors, gray Formica countertop, gray porcelain sink, gray door on the single stall in the room.
She throws the bolt on the entrance door. The click sounds like a minor explosion in the small confines of the room.
She approaches the gray door. She enters the stall—the fat woman has forgotten to flush—puts the bag down alongside the toilet bowl.
For a moment, she stands alone and silent in the small cubicle. Then she leaves the stall, and leaves the ladies’ room. The black woman is still there at the coffee machines, sipping from the cardboard container.
Alice walks over to her.
“Are you the one?” she asks.
The woman appears startled.
“Are you the one who has my children?”
The woman says nothing.
“If you are, then listen to me,” Alice says. “If you don’t let my kids go, I’ll find you and kill you.”
“Gee,” the black woman says, and goes immediately to the ladies’ room door. She grabs the doorknob, turns to face Alice, looks her dead in the eye. “Be gone when I come out,” she says. “Do anything foolish, and they die. We’ll call you.” She nods. “You understand what I’m saying?” she says, and stares at Alice a moment longer before opening the door and entering the ladies’ room.
Alice hears the click of the bolt.
“I hope you understood me!” she shouts to the closed door.
But her threat is an empty one.
They have the children.
There is nothing she can do.
Nothing at all.
The three detectives have positioned themselves outside the Shell
She parks the black Mercedes truck in a space for about five or six cars, near the air hoses, gets out—and hesitates.
For a fleeting instant, she wishes she’d taken with her the snubnosed .32-caliber pistol Eddie gave her as a birthday present the year they moved down here. Instead, it is resting under her lingerie in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser back home.
But they have the children, she thinks.
The children will die, she thinks.
She shakes her head, pulls back her shoulders, walks briskly into the convenience area. The guy behind the counter there gives her a look as she limps past toward the rear of the building, following the sign that indicates RESTROOMS . He does not appreciate cripples limping in here to use the toilets without buying either gas or food. Alice is carrying the small Louis Vuitton bag, decorated with its repeated LV monogram, and stuffed at the moment with 2,500 fake hundred-dollar bills “so good nobody can tell them from the real thing”—she hopes.
A black woman is at the coffee machine, filling a cardboard container. She is some five feet seven inches tall, Alice guesses, as tall and as slim as a proud Masai woman. Wearing a very short green mini and a white T-shirt. Good firm thighs and shapely calves tapering to slender ankles in strappy flat sandals. Oversized sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat that hides half her face. Wide gold bracelet on the biceps of one dark, rounded arm. Alice wonders if this is the woman she’s been talking to on the phone.
“Morning,” the woman says, and smiles.
Alice does not recognize the voice.
“Morning,” she answers, and goes to the door marked WOMEN , and tries the knob.
“Occupied,” the woman says.
Alice still does not recognize the voice.
“Are you waiting?” she asks.
“Nope,” the woman says.
The door to the ladies’ room opens. A fat woman in a flowered dress comes out, smiles at both of them, and then goes toward the front of the building. The black woman is now putting sugar into her coffee. Alice goes into the ladies’ room.
The room is an entirely gray entity. Gray tile floors, gray Formica countertop, gray porcelain sink, gray door on the single stall in the room.
She throws the bolt on the entrance door. The click sounds like a minor explosion in the small confines of the room.
She approaches the gray door. She enters the stall—the fat woman has forgotten to flush—puts the bag down alongside the toilet bowl.
For a moment, she stands alone and silent in the small cubicle. Then she leaves the stall, and leaves the ladies’ room. The black woman is still there at the coffee machines, sipping from the cardboard container.
Alice walks over to her.
“Are you the one?” she asks.
The woman appears startled.
“Are you the one who has my children?”
The woman says nothing.
“If you are, then listen to me,” Alice says. “If you don’t let my kids go, I’ll find you and kill you.”
“Gee,” the black woman says, and goes immediately to the ladies’ room door. She grabs the doorknob, turns to face Alice, looks her dead in the eye. “Be gone when I come out,” she says. “Do anything foolish, and they die. We’ll call you.” She nods. “You understand what I’m saying?” she says, and stares at Alice a moment longer before opening the door and entering the ladies’ room.
Alice hears the click of the bolt.
“I hope you understood me!” she shouts to the closed door.
But her threat is an empty one.
They have the children.
There is nothing she can do.
Nothing at all.
The three detectives have positioned themselves outside the Shell
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