Walt glanced at me, then let out a long sigh. “Aw hell, Charlie, I know that,” he said. “I guess I’m just hoping MacMillan was kinda right about you.”
“Right about what?” I said. I remembered our earlier conversation. “About my instinct?”
“No,” Walt said now. “He told me you’d killed, but that he didn’t believe you were a killer.” He turned his head and gave me a long level stare. “I don’t believe that either and I’m kinda praying to the good Lord we’re both right, or I just made myself an accessory to the crime.”
I got out of the car without answering that one, just shut the door behind me.
“Don’t wait for me,” I said through the open window. “I’ll make my own way back.”
I walked quickly to the gateway without looking back, not giving Walt the chance to realise that both he and MacMillan were about to be proved wrong.
Dead wrong.
The iron gates were intended more for decoration than security and looked as though they’d never been shut. I was still aware of a shiver of apprehension as I passed between them. A short distance beyond, there was a guardhouse in the middle of the drive. Next to that was a barrier to block off the road but it was in the up position and it stayed there as I walked towards it.
It was close to midday and the sun was at the highest point of its arc so that I cast a very short shadow on the block paving under my feet. My shirt had stuck to my back and I could feel the back of my neck burning. The little flowered bag containing the tape recorder and the SIG with its almost-empty magazine bumped against my hip as I walked.
As I approached I saw a head appear in the window of the guardhouse, then the figure moved to the doorway and came out to watch me. For a moment I tensed but as I drew nearer I saw the uniformed guard could only have been a year or two younger than Walt.
“Afternoon, young lady,” he said cheerfully. “What can I do for you today?”
I manufactured a gormless teenage expression. “I’m s’posed to be, like meeting my mom. She’s got a place here, y’know?” I said, looking about me vaguely, as though expecting her to materialise out of the shrubbery.
The old guard didn’t look either fazed or suspicious of my story.
“No problem,” he said, picking up his clipboard. “What’s her name?”
“Gerri Raybourn,” I said, trying not to hold my breath after I’d said it. “She and my dad are, like, divorced and I’m s’posed to be staying with her ‘til I go back to college next week. It’s a real drag.”
“No problem,” the guard said again. He found the name and made a note against it. “You know where to find her villa?”
I shook my head, hoping the clueless guise would be a good enough excuse.
“Tell you what, then, you step inside out of the heat and I’ll have someone come down and give you a ride. Save you the walk. Then if your mom’s stepped out you can have a tour or sit by the pool at the clubhouse and have a soda while you wait for her to come get you, OK?”
Inside the guardhouse wasn’t air conditioned but the old guy had an oscillating fan set up on the desk right in front of his chair, and it was going full belt. A rake of high-quality security monitors were laid out across the back wall, showing constantly updating views right across the property.
The coverage was impressive and it looked like Walt had been right. If I’d tried to creep in I would have been caught before I’d got halfway across the grounds. This way I didn’t even need to worry about directions.
Five minutes later an electric golf cart zipped up outside and a young man bounced out. He was dressed in designer tan chinos and a dark green polo shirt with the resort logo on the front and he was far too slick a professional to look dismayed by the obvious lack of money suggested by my appearance.
“Hi there!” he said. He stuck out his hand. He had great teeth, a great tan, and a manicure. “I’m Randy.”
I kept my face as straight as I could manage and didn’t inquire if that was an introduction or a declaration of intent.
“Cool,” I said again. “Let’s go.”
As I climbed into the golf cart alongside Randy I realised I could almost see myself as he saw me, a kid with pink hair and an attitude. It was like I had stepped outside my own body, my own mind. Like I was slowly detaching myself in advance from my actions. Hiding from them.
Randy made chatty one-sided conversation all the way along the immaculately tailored drive, going into sales pitch mode as he pointed out the championship golf course, the driving range and the tennis courts, all complete with their own pro instructors. I tuned him out until I realised I’d nearly missed a name I recognised.
“Who?” I said.
“Livingston Brown III,” Randy gushed. “He’s the property developer. Been doing this kinda thing most of his life. Nearly got wiped out a few years ago when we had the last big hurricane – that one nearly wiped out most of the east coast – but he bounced right back. He shoulda retired by now but I guess the guy just loves his work. He built this whole place. Puts us twenty-somethings to shame, let me tell you. Quite a guy.”
“Wow,” I murmured, as though I couldn’t imagine anyone still being able to walk unaided at such an advanced age, but my nerves tightened at this piece of news. If I was likely to bump into him, would Brown recognise me in this get-up? “Is he here?”
“Oh he’s usually around someplace,” Randy said and flashed me a slightly condescending smile. One that said no way was the boss man ever going to come into contact with someone as far down the food chain as me, not if he could help it.
On the way to the villa belonging to my ‘mother’ he took a detour to show me the campfire area near one of the pools. “We organise barbecue nights and sing-alongs round the fire in the evenings that you and your mom can join in on,” he said. “It’s a lotta fun.”
“Oh boy, I can hardly wait,” I said between my teeth. He looked at me a little oddly but I managed to dredge up a saccharine smile that seemed to convince him I’d been expressing genuine enthusiasm.
If it didn’t sound the kind of place I’d want to come and spend my holidays, there were plenty who were willing to be swayed. An army of green polo-shirted staff were leading prospective customers round the lushly- planted pathways, or driving them about the place in golf carts similar to Randy’s.
The staff were all young and good-looking but that only added to the vaguely sinister feel of the place, like they were the identical minions at the chief baddie’s secret lair in a James Bond film.
When I reached the villa Randy indicated I let him knock on the door for me, keeping as far to one side of him as I could, out of sight of the Judas glass set into the centre panel. I had one hand dipped into the bag, but not to reach for the voice activation button on the recorder. That remained switched off. Instead, my fingers curled round the pistol grip of the SIG. I became aware of an ever-expanding bubble of tension somewhere deep in my chest.
“Well, doesn’t look like she’s home,” Randy said cheerfully when his loud knocks produced no movement from inside the villa. “We’ll try over at the clubhouse.”
The clubhouse seemed to be the centre of activity. Raucously carnival-type music belted out of speakers on the outside of the building to whip you into the buying frame of mind. As he led the way inside I caught snatches of other conversations.
“If you’da known five years ago what was going to happen to the price of real estate in this area, would you have bought then?” asked another slick salesman.
“In a heartbeat,” said the fat man following him.
Randy stopped by the main reception desk and explained he was trying to locate my mother. He waited with a touch of impatience while the receptionist tapped something into her computer. “Just checking to see if your mom’s booked in to the health spa, or on any of the courts,” Randy explained.
“If you find her, please don’t, like, tell her I’m here, will you?” I said quickly. “Only, I kinda wanted to surprise her.”
“Sure,” he said, easily enough. Either I was getting very good at telling lies, or these people were abnormally trusting.
