Hot Streak

Looking up at him over her left shoulder, the dark-haired woman said, “Yes?”

Bingo.

“Egon was on the flight,” Carey announced, satisfaction evident in his voice as he entered the car and pointed eastward with a nod. “Danielle said her fellow stewardess Mariel took an interest in Egon and left the airport with him. So we're getting back on the coast highway,” he explained as Molly backed up and turned out of the parking lot overlooking the tennis courts.

“So where's Egon? Does she know?”

“No, but my guess is he's playing kissy-face with his new friend up at Le Retour. I hate to break up a pleasant interlude, but Rifat's not likely to wait. Whoa! You need to drive on the left side of the road, darling, or we'll be a traffic statistic.”

“Sorry.”

“Want me to drive?”

“No, you give me directions. This I can do.”

But when they'd covered the winding uphill miles to Egon's home high above the bay, the small staff he kept at the house hadn't heard from him.

Frustrated, Carey paced the large entrance hall on the main floor while Egon's steward looked on nervously. Awed, Molly eyed a statue reminiscent of a hellenistic sculpture she'd seen in a museum. The pale yellow and white color scheme complemented the cream exterior of the villa, one of the finest examples of colonial Palladian she'd ever seen.

Symmetrical stairways met on the main floor veranda and the entire facade faced the sea with enormous pilastered and pedimented windows exposed to the view and breeze.

“If we had time,” Carey said, checking his watch, “we could afford to wait here for him.”

“Could I have dinner served for you and the lady, Count Fersten?” the steward courteously inquired, moving away from the doorway enough to enter Carey's line of vision.

“Thank you no, David,” he said, shoving his hands in his shorts pockets and standing still for a contemplative moment. “Now where the hell would he go with a little French stewardess?” he muttered. Carey exhaled suddenly, his mind a muddle from trying to second-guess Egon, who at the best of times was erratic. On drugs, he was undirected impulse. In the meantime though, he'd better clear the house because sooner or later Rifat's men would show up and terrorize whomever was here.

“By the way, David, there's a bit of trouble following Count von Mansfeld. I'd suggest the staff sleep elsewhere tonight.” He began pacing again, as if the physical activity promoted thought.

“But, sir, what if Master Egon arrives?”

“He'll understand, trust me. Now go pack what you need for a couple of nights and get everyone the hell out.”

“But, sir, we're familiar with the master's scrapes. If the constable comes, we can deal with him.”

Carey stopped midpace and swung around slowly until he faced Egon's steward who'd served Egon's father before him. Without terrifying David or being too explicit in front of Molly, he had to make David aware of the danger. “Egon's in more trouble than usual. Sylvie suggested you take a few days off and visit your family in the Blue Mountains like cook did once.”

David and the servants had left once during the colonial upheavals of the fifties when some of the independence advocates had taken to the streets with machetes. Sylvie still talked about the stories old cook would relate of the bloody course of events.

“Truly, sir?” David carefully inquired, understanding the extent of the danger now.

“As soon as possible.”

“And Master Egon?”

“I'm going back to find him and take him to my father's. He's somewhere between here and Montego Bay.”

“Might I suggest-?”

“Rosie's?”

“Yes.”

“He's with a woman already.”

“Anyone from the island, sir?” David asked. Egon's companion might dictate the style of entertainment.

“No, an Air France stewardess.”

“You might try the Ruins. Master Egon favors it.”

“Good idea. Thanks, David.” He smiled then, in both apology and understanding. Over the years he and David had seen to Egon's best interests on numerous occasions. “Remember,” he softly said, his inflection suggesting the seriousness of the situation, “be out of here as soon as possible.” And, striding toward Molly, he took her hand and pulled her out the door. “I'll drive.” They were down the staircase and into the car with efficiency and dispatch.

“Why didn't I think of food?” he said, slamming the car into gear and accelerating out of the drive.

“Probably because if you were with an Air France stewardess you wouldn't be thinking of food,” Molly sweetly replied.

“Great, I'm three thousand miles from home looking to stay one step ahead of the death squad and I've a comedian on my hands.”

“It's the truth, admit it.”

“Jesus, what a nag.” But his voice was teasing and for a brief, insane moment he was glad she'd come along.

“I'm simply pointing out the reason for your oversight.” Her voice was smug, but teasing too.

“I guess you're right,” he replied. “They never did think about food.”

She hit him then.

And he laughed. “You've led a sheltered life.”

“Until now,” she pointed out.

“You should be back on the plane with Jess.”

“Don't want to.”

“Impossible woman.”

“But charming.”

“Just impossible at the moment. You realize, of course, you're in the way.” He kept his eyes on the road, both his hands on the wheel and was braking just before the curves, then accelerating into them with a speed much too fast for dusk on this narrow mountain road. “If he's at the Ruins, I'm going to bodily throw him over my shoulder and carry him out. You can make yourself useful by uttering polite noises to the stewardess and saying Egon's good-byes.”

“Just like that. Won't she think it rude?”

“Not as rude as a 9mm round in her head. She'll thank you, believe me, for saving her family the expense of a funeral.” Carey's voice was without a trace of amusement and Molly instantly recalled the attempt to kidnap Carrie. She still had trouble digesting the full impact of an act of violence like that directed at her family. Now that it was over, her first impulse was to dismiss it and forget it as some surreal infringement of her conventional life. And even here in Jamaica, racing down a mountain road as a magical lavender twilight settled into the anonymous gray of dusk, she seemed detached from the murderous danger of kidnappers and lethal bullets.

“Are you sure that Rifat is really after Egon?”

He should have locked her on the plane, he thought. It was a terrible mistake to have her along. “Can't be sure,” he lied, thinking he'd drop her off at the Sheraton, book them a room, and tell her he'd be back to spend the night once he'd found Egon. She'd be safe then, and out of Rifat's way. He should have thought of it sooner.

“And Egon's fear might just be drug-induced.”

“Could be.”

“Maybe Carrie and Lucy were imagining things. You know how they go off on tangents when they're together.”

Carey thought of the broken door jamb she'd obviously forgotten. “Maybe I am taking this all too seriously,” he agreed in a voice he'd found particularly effective with nettled women and suspicious