This was not good at all.
He looked out over the water, considering the implications. It was possible, of course, that the intrusion had been as trivial as he’d explained it to the bearded man. Someone with business with Shevlin might have gone looking for him; failing to find him at his apartment, he could then have tried him at the Boat Basin. In that case he wouldn’t know that Shevlin had gone missing, and would either keep looking in a tentative way or drop the matter.
But it was more likely that someone realized that Peter Shevlin was missing, and that was why he’d had a visitor. Perhaps it would be best, for the next few days, if he came to the boat later and left it earlier. Should he avoid sailing altogether? That might not be necessary, if he took the proper precautions.
He owed a debt of gratitude to the man with the black beard, and wondered if a bullet might not be the best way to pay it.
Because, for all that his warning was useful, his knowledge was dangerous. He had looked the Carpenter right in the face, and the Carpenter’s face had been made familiar to the entire city, and indeed to the world beyond.
On the plus side, whenever the man looked at him in the future he’d recognize him as Peter Shevlin. That was all to the good, until the moment the fellow spotted a newspaper photo or watched America’s Most Wanted and experienced the shock of recognition. Why, that’s Shevlin, he’d say. No wonder he looked familiar.
Invite him on board, sail out onto the middle of the river, far enough so that a shot from a small-caliber gun in a closed cabin wouldn’t reach another human ear. Wait until the man was dis-tracted, because he was huge, he might be harder to kill than Rasputin. Then put a bullet into the back of his skull, into the base of his brain.
And then what? He didn’t have the boning saw, it was down there in Davy Jones’s locker, and it would be hell dismembering a man that size in the close quarters of the boat’s cabin. No, just get him overboard, but even that could not be done without difficulty.
All in all, he decided, killing him presented more and greater risks than letting him live.
Besides, the Carpenter thought, the man would die soon enough. They all would.
T H E M A R I N A W A S O N the Jersey side of the river, a ways upstream from the Boat Basin. The boats moored there were several cuts above the ramshackle lot that were his neighbors, and the Nancy Dee looked like a poor relative in their company.
But that didn’t make the rawboned man with the bandage on his cheek disinclined to take his money and sell him a five-gallon can of gasoline.
“Oh, and a case of beer,” the Carpenter said as an afterthought.
“In bottles, and make it whatever’s the cheapest.” The man said he had Old Milwaukee at a real good price, but that’d be cans. Did it have to be bottles? The Carpenter said it had to be bottles. There was something about drinking out of a can, he said, and the rawboned man said he knew exactly what he meant.
He wound up with two cases of Bud Light. (“You know what?
Make it two cases, I don’t want to run out in the middle of a holiday weekend.”) The bottles had twist-off caps, and he twisted them off one by one, pouring their contents overboard. He filled the two cases with the empty bottles and carried them into the cabin.
That made five cases, or sixty bottles. And ten gallons of gasoline, which was far more than he’d need. Sixty twelve-ounce bottles would hold 720 ounces, or a little more than twenty-two quarts, which was not much more than five gallons. Of course you had to allow for some spillage, the Carpenter thought. And anything left over would just add to the final sacrifice.
He wouldn’t fill the bottles yet. He had to store them in the cabin, where they wouldn’t be readily seen, and he knew his cloth wicks would not be airtight. In a closed space, the fumes could reach dangerous levels. He wouldn’t want that.
But he had his bottles empty and ready, his strips of cloth already torn, the gas on hand waiting to be poured. He was prepared.
He was back at his slip by three in the morning. He waited long enough for anyone who’d been disturbed by his engine to go back to sleep. Then, quietly, he changed his clothes, loaded the white pants and the cap into his backpack, and went ashore.
thirty-six
CREIGHTON SAT ONthe couch and thought of a cigarette.
He didn’t necessarily want one, but the thought came to him, as it often did. With the day’s first cup of coffee, at the end of a good meal, after lovemaking, or when a conversation seemed to require a pause, that little break you got when you shook a Camel out of the pack and put a flame to it. He told himself, not for the first time, that a mind was a terrible thing to have, and turned his attention back to the television set.
America’s Most Wanted was on. They’d just dramatized the story of a West Virginia man who’d violated an order of protection his girlfriend had taken out against him, and in the process had violated his girlfriend and the girlfriend’s eleven-year-old daughter.
The actor chosen to play the serial violator seemed an odd choice for the role, slim and blond and nerdy, until they showed a photo of the real miscreant and he looked as though he ought to be running Microsoft.
And now it was Carpenter time. John Walsh told how tips had led law enforcement officers to kick in a door at a motel in Way-cross, Georgia, while others surrounded an RV parked at a KOA campground in Kalispell, Montana. In each case, an elderly gentleman who on close examination proved to look nothing like the photo of William Boyce Harbinger was arrested and released with apologies.
“But we’re getting closer,” Walsh assured his viewers, and went on to announce that another New York City murder, that of real estate agent Marilyn Fairchild, had been definitely credited to the Carpenter.
“He makes it sound as though the program’s responsible,” Susan said. “Not a word about James Galvin, PI, or the public-spirited author who hired him.”
“I talked about him this afternoon. Gave him credit.”
“By name?”
He nodded. “If they don’t cut it,” he said, “it’s a nice plug for him.”
He’d spent the afternoon at NBC’s Rockefeller Center studios, taping a show segment with Matt Lauer. They’d watch it tomorrow morning on CNBC, and it would air later throughout the week on both of the network’s cable channels. It was not the first national TV he’d done since Leona Fabrizzio’s press conference, nor would it be the last; Tracy had booked him on Dominick Dunne’s new show on Court TV, and was working on Larry King.
He was, she’d told him, a dream to book. He was a writer, bright and articulate, and he’d been accused of a horrible crime with yummy sexual overtones, and not only was he as innocent as a newborn lamb, but through his efforts the crime had been added to the Carpenter’s lengthening list. It was early for publicity, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.
“Call me crazy,” she said, “but when the book comes out, I’m not ruling out Oprah. She’s done with the book club, but that doesn’t mean she’s not booking authors.”
The publicity was so hot, and making everyone at Crown so happy, that you could easily lose sight of the fact that there was a book in there, too. But there was, and Esther Blinkoff was reading it over the weekend. He had the feeling she’d love it whether she liked it or not, but he also expected her enthusiasm to be genuine.
Because he’d felt right about this one from the first day, and the three readings the book had had so far confirmed his feeling. He’d read it himself, of course, catching typos and overused words and redundancies and the occasional awkward phrase, and his was hardly an objective reading, but it was a relief to discover that he liked what he read. Susan was his ideal reader, the one he’d been writing Darker Than Water for before he knew she existed, the one for whom he’d been writing all his life. He’d expected her to love it, as indeed she had, and for all the right reasons; her reaction was reward enough for writing it.
But not the only reward he could expect, according to Roz, who could be counted on for an honest appraisal. Artistically, she assured him, it was at least as good as anything he’d written, and probably his best work. From a commercial standpoint, it was even more impressive. “The crime angle got you the contract,” she told him, “and the numbers plus the publicity angle had this book headed for the list before you wrote it. But Darker Than Water would be a candidate even if, God forbid, those cops had never come knocking at your door. What’s so funny?”
“‘God forbid’?”
“Well, face it, the way it turned out it was a blessing. But without all that, if you just walked in and laid this on my desk, I’d do the same thing, I’d run half a dozen copies and have an auction.
And I wouldn’t get three million dollars, but I’d get something in the high six figures, I guarantee you that. You’re already rich and famous, sonny boy, and you’re gonna be richer and famouser.
What do you think of that?”
S U S A N H E A R D H I M S I N G I N G in the shower. She loved that, it was such a guy thing. Like karaoke, but without making a public spectacle of yourself.
She’d joined him in the shower the other day, effectively ending the concert but starting something even better. She loved soaping him, loved that he had all that hair on his body. It contrasted so nicely with her own.
Should she go in there now? No, she decided, it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to do too often. She’d think of something else, something special.
She picked up the little rabbit, touched the smooth stone to her cheek. Was she losing her mind or was the cornmeal disappearing from its bowl? There did seem to be less of it than the last time she’d looked.
She kissed the creature, informed it that it was a little pig, and put it back in front of its dish.
He’d bought a bunch of bananas the other day, and they looked ripe enough to eat. She peeled one, and it was just right, ripe but firm. She closed her lips over the end of it and savored the feel of it in her mouth, then got an idea. She ate that banana and peeled another one.
When he got out of the shower she was waiting for him in the bed. “I’ve got something for you,” she said.
“I’ll bet you do.”
“It’s a banana,” she said, “and I hid it.”
“My goodness,” he said. “Now where could you possibly hide something like that?”
“I think you should look for it,” she said, “and if you find it you get to eat it. But there’s a catch.”
“I was afraid of that. What is it?”
“You’re not allowed to use your hands.”
And what an inspiration that turned out to be. He didn’t stop when the banana was gone, didn’t stop after her first or second or third orgasm, and how could you count when one sort of rolled over into the next, and finally he was lying on top of her, his cock buried inside her, bigger than the banana, firmer than the banana, oh God sweeter than the banana, and he was kissing her, and his mouth tasted of pussy and banana, and if they could synthesize that combination everyone would want to pour it over ice cream, and he was fucking her with a lazy rhythmic roll of his hips, taking his time, taking his time, and she looked into his eyes and they were looking back into hers, and she couldn’t help herself, she couldn’t help herself, and she took his big hands and put them at the sides of her throat.