Mr. Clarinet

The second room had two overnight bags in it, which belonged to the women Huxley was with. He also found a photocopier and a box of paper. The machine had been unplugged. Max opened the copier lid. Nothing. He opened the box. Empty.

He looked around the rest of the room. Nothing to see.

He stared at the copier. He moved it away from the wall. A layer of dust and two dead insects.

No weapons in either room.

Max went to the master bedroom and watched the boat in the middle of the window.

After an hour of water-skiing, they turned back toward land.

Chapter 64

THE GIRLS CAME in first. Kreyol, laughter.

Then Huxley, shutting the door, talking.

More laughter.

Max was in the first guest room, sharing space with Huxley's suitcase and phony ID.

He suddenly remembered the bottle of water he'd drunk from. It was a new bottle he'd uncapped. If they went to the kitchen, they'd know someone was in the house.

Shit!

There was a bump next door, in the master bedroom, followed by voices, then short laughter.

One set of feet—flip-flops—outside, right by the door.

The door handle budged and moved down.

Max stepped back from the door, gun cocked.

Silence.

The air-conditioning went on.

Max waited.

The flip-flops retreated.

Another set of feet—bare—padded across the corridor and headed for the living room.

The toilet flushed. Flip-flops followed the feet.

A woman's playful scream, Huxley growling, then a moan.

The second woman's voice, talking from the bedroom, then laughing.

Max listened. He heard nothing. He thought of the water. He had to move in.

Flip-flops followed by bare feet came back and went into the bedroom.

Talking, giggling.

Max moved near the door and waited.

He heard Huxley talking low. Moving around on the bedsprings.

Max opened the door a crack. Silence.

Max stepped out on tiptoe.

Huxley spoke again.

More gasping, moaning, climbing in pitch.

Max braced himself. His head was clear. He was here for Charlie, to find out where they were keeping him or where they'd buried him. He wasn't here for revenge. He was just finishing his job and closing out his career. He had the element of surprise on his side. They wouldn't be expecting him.

Huxley said something else.

Now's the time.

Max stepped silently into the room.

Some scene.

All three were so into it they didn't realize he was in the room.

The two women were on the bed, naked, heads buried between each other's thighs. Huxley was in a chair opposite, yellow Triumph T-shirt, powder-blue flip-flops, shorts around his ankles, mouth agape, his erection in his hand, stroking slowly.

Max aimed the Glock at his head.

Huxley was so lost in his show he didn't notice Max standing in front of him, at point-blank range.

Max cleared his throat.

The girl on the bottom looked up at him, freed her head, and screamed.

Huxley stared at Max like he was a hallucination, his expression normal and relaxed as if he were waiting for his brain to flip his sanity switch back on and make the vision disappear.

When it didn't, he panicked. He tried to keep it from showing overall, but the color left his face, his nostrils flared, his eyes opened up more, and his lips parted and stayed half-open.

The second girl screamed. They both sat up and grabbed the sheets to cover themselves. Dark-skinned, high cheekbones, full, plump lips—beautiful. Huxley had great taste.

Max put his finger to his lips for them to be quiet and stepped away from the bed in case they tried to lunge at him.

"Charlie Carver," he said to Huxley. "Dead or alive?"

Huxley cracked a smile.

"I told Allain you'd be back," he said, sounding almost pleased. "Especially when you wired him his money back. He couldn't believe it. I knew you were onto us then. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to finish your job. I knew it. I've never seen someone cut and run so fast. Allain ran away like his asshole was on fire."

"Answer me."

"Charlie's alive."

"Where've you got him?"

"He's safe. Near the Dominican Republic border."

"Who's got him?"

"A couple," Huxley stammered. "They haven't harmed him at all. He's virtually like a son to them."

"Let's go get him," Max said.

Chapter 65

HUXLEY DROVE. MAX sat next to him with the gun trained on his waist.

"When was the last time you saw the kid?" Max asked.

"Three months ago."

"How was he?"

"Very well. Healthy."

"Any speech?"

"What?"

"Can he talk?"

"No. He won't."

It was midafternoon. Huxley explained that they would be driving back to Pétionville, then up the mountain road, past the Carver estate, stopping close enough to see the lights in the houses in the Dominican Republic. He hoped to reach the place where Charlie was being held by late evening.

"Tell me about the people who've got the kid."

"Carl and Ertha. Old folk, in their seventies. The most dangerous object they've got in the house is a machete—and that's for coconuts. Carl's an ex-priest—"

"—Another one," Max quipped.