talk-show shrinks said, as though living were some kind of task to be fulfilled.
Returning to the Turks and Caicos was out. Even if he were able to satisfy the colonial government as to his innocence in the house fire, that hiding place had been exposed. Pity. In the short time he had lived on North Caicos, he had grown to love the remoteness, the fact that the feel, the very essence of the island had not been sacrificed to the tourist dollar.
Yet.
He would probably choose another island, the smaller the better. A place with only occasional air service, or, better yet, none at all, small enough that the arrival of a stranger was noticed. One place he could not live was the United States, not with the sizable bank balances he had accumulated since going to work for Narcom, accounts in capital-friendly countries that saw the wisdom of holding foreigners' money, not confiscating it with punitive taxes. The very existence of the income produced by such accounts as could be found would attract the attention of the IRS, which would ask questions best left unanswered.
Besides, Jason had no desire to participate in the evergrowing and thinly disguised intent of American politicians to redistribute the wealth.
His wealth.
He turned and walked to the stairs leading up to the passenger lounge. Even though the sea breeze was blowing its salty air in his face, he imagined he could smell baking crusts from the cramped pizzeria that was the boat's sole dining facility. He climbed the steel steps and went inside.
Jason could not decide between the artichoke-mushroom and the multiple cheese selections. He ordered a square of each and made his way to one of the ten or so small tables, only half of which were occupied. He had taken only a bite out of the cheese pizza when he noticed a copy of the London Times crumpled on the adjacent table. Glancing around the room to be certain the paper was abandoned, he opened it up.
He scanned the day-old headlines. The lead story concerned a conference on the environment, a meeting in Washington whose main purpose, Jason guessed, was politics rather than statesmanship. The only agreement on allocation of the world's resources would come when they either no longer existed or could be produced artificially. Those who profited by exploiting the earth were not likely to voluntarily relinquish them.
He took a bite of artichoke and mushroom.
He was about to turn the front page when he happened to notice a reprint from the Washington Post. The word Hillwood sprang out at him. He had escorted Laurin to some sort of function there, one of the several charity balls to which she had dragged him annually.
He hated the things.
Disease balls. Benefit for multiple sclerosis, funding for breast cancer research, cure for whatever. Mostly social aspirants, those unable to attain membership in the better clubs-women more on the outside than the inside of Washington society, could put on a five-thousand-dollar gown and chance meeting the current social glitterati in the name of charity. God forbid they be subjected to disgusting and dreary work at a homeless shelter or soup kitchen, where they would never be photographed for the society section of the paper.
Or at even in the small magazines that sold subscriptions to the very people they covered.
Jason had pointed out that a two-hundred-dollar ticket to such galas meant the charity in question would be lucky to get fifty. Why not, he reasoned, simply give the institution half the cost of the unbought gown and go out to a good restaurant while others were busy climbing the social ladder?
After all, as a partner in one of the city's premier law firms, Laurin had multiple club memberships paid for by her partners. There was no need to spend an evening of bad food and worse company among social wannabes.
Laurin would have none of it.
She spent at least one weekend a month doing the true grunt work of charity-helping in a hospice, giving free legal advice at a halfway house-efforts that would never be rewarded by public recognition. So why not do the glitzy part, too?
He didn't remember the specific event or the malaise it celebrated.
Prevention of terminal flatulence, maybe?
He did recall the former home of the Post heiress. Far from the street, out of the way. Small for the wealth it represented but on a large estate, one that would be difficult to totally close off from the rest of the world.
He supposed the conference would be held in the dining room, where he had experienced a lavish buffet of overcooked roast beef, rubber chicken, listless salad, et cetera, by the yard. The usual poor quality of the food had been overshadowed by the appearance of a man whose name Jason had forgotten within minutes of hearing it, a doctor who attached himself to Jason like a human leech. He was typical of the tedious types that peopled such functions, unable to discuss anything but his golf score and his brilliance in the stock market.
Jason had introduced him to Laurin and disappeared, leaving the man trying to be discreet in looking down the decollete of her ball gown while she frantically searched for a way to disengage herself.
It seemed ample revenge for her dragging Jason there.
He had escaped through the French doors that led into a garden, where rosebushes were just beginning to bloom.
Jason had guessed those doors could be left open, letting diners enjoy the fragrance of the flowers.
Or some other fragrance.
Like in a trawler in the Bering Sea.
Or at Baia.
The thought that had prowled the back of his mind now leaped from the tangle of his subconscious, a concept so powerful it would have struck him dumb had he had anyone to talk to.
He checked his watch. Hours before the ferry docked.
A ship-to-shore telephone on board?
He would certainly arouse suspicion by demanding to use it.
But he couldn't simply sit here and allow events to spin on their present course by his inaction. He had to do something, get the word to Mama no matter what.
But how?
Chapter Forty-eight
Hillwood
4155 Linnean Avenue
Washington, D.C.
1530 EDT
Shirlee Atkins had been right.
Them mens hadn't given a shit whether they tracked dirt into the house or not. Chattering in some language she had never heard before, they went about their work in the rose garden and they would walk right cross the Chinese Oriental rug to go to the bathroom without so much as wiping their dirty boots. Mr. Jimson, he wouldn'ta let 'em do that, but this new fella, the one whose head look like an Easter egg, he didn't much seem to care.
Prolly wouldn'ta much cared 'bout what Shirlee done found in one of the silver drawers in the sideboard, either. The drawer stuck and she'd had to give it a real tug. Thing fell out on the floor, spillin' knives 'n' forks everwhere. But underneath them knives 'n' forks was some kinda false bottom, a place Shirlee reckoned Ms. Post used to hide real valuables. Like the curve-bladed knife with a golden handle. She 'spected there be no reason tell the new man she near done broke that drawer, jes' put it back like it was.
Ever since that man what call himself Rassavitch showed up this mornin' in that big ol' beat-up truck, the mens with the shovels, they workin' harder'n Shirlee had seen all week. They was sho' gonna finish this afternoon, git the place ready fo' that big meetin' tomorrow.
Stuff on that truck strange.
Some kinda spindly little plant. Downright ugly, and hadn't no flowers on it. Then they unloaded a bunch o' rocks. Big, round white-colored stone, look like they coulda weighed tons. But they didn't. One o' them scrawny little guys could pick one o' them rocks right up an' carry it to where they were planting those scraggly little bushes
