the sole of Boucicaut’s sneaker squeaked on the marble, the sound so distinct that Gil wasn’t sure that he had really heard what came right after: a woman’s moan, somewhere in the house, somewhere close by.
He clutched the back of Boucicaut’s jacket, stopping him, then put his face close to Boucicaut’s ear, so close he could smell ear wax, right through the wool of the ski mask, and whispered, “What was that?”
“What was what?” Boucicaut replied, not whispering, not even lowering his voice much. Gil smelled the booze on his breath.
“I thought I heard-” Gil stopped himself, thinking he’d heard it again.
“Don’t think,” Boucicaut said, and pushed open the library door.
The library was warm and smelled of smoke. There was another smell too, that made Gil think of Lenore. Boucicaut’s light skimmed the heavy furniture-the wingback chairs, the floral settees, the couch overlooking the sea view, its back to the room-and settled first on the built-in cabinets, then on the photograph of the young Mrs. Hale in her fencing outfit. He was there in a moment, taking down the photograph, spinning the dial back and forth, without result.
“Let’s do the knives first,” he said.
“Shh,” said Gil.
Boucicaut laughed softly to himself.
They moved to the cabinets, tried the drawers. Locked. Boucicaut handed Gil the flash. Gil shone it on the drawer where he’d seen the old Randall bowies, steadied the beam on the oval brass keyhole. Boucicaut drew the flat bar from his tool belt, swung his arm back, and drove the claw end at the keyhole. There was a sound like a tree falling, and the flat bar sank halfway into the drawer, taking the brass keyhole and jagged oval of splintered wood with it. Steel gleamed through the hole. Yes, Gil thought. Cake. He twisted slightly to remove the backpack, then stopped. He’d seen something. The twitch of a shadow, near the couch that faced the sea. He swung the beam across the room, at first seeing nothing. Then a figure ran through the cone of light and disappeared, a bare foot trailing a momentary glow like a comet’s tail.
“Co!”
But Boucicaut was already moving. There was a crash in the darkness, then a cry-a woman’s cry; and a grunt-Boucicaut’s. Gil trained the light on a dark, shifting mass on the floor, and in the unsteady beam saw a naked, dark-skinned woman struggling to get out from under Boucicaut. The maid. Gil thought of the panties on the shower-curtain rail, thought he should have been prepared for something like this. Why was he always one step behind?
“Well, well,” said Boucicaut, looking down at the woman. Her eyes were wide, her skin stretched so tight with tension across her face that it must have hurt.
“Please,” she said. A high, carrying sound that vibrated unpleasantly in Gil’s inner ear. Boucicaut didn’t like it either. He put a hand over her mouth, pushed himself up to a sitting position, straddling her.
“Well, well,” he said again. With his free hand, he reached down, took her nipple between thumb and forefinger, and gave it a twist, as though it were a dial on some machine.
The woman whimpered. “No more noise,” said Boucicaut, and did something to her breast that made furrows pop out on her smooth forehead. Then he reached down, underneath himself, toward her crotch.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gil said.
“Just having a little fun,” Boucicaut replied. He took his hand from her mouth, fumbled with the buckle of the tool belt, then with his pants.
“Stop,” Gil said.
“You just get busy on that drawer,” Boucicaut said, “and shut the fuck up.” He pulled his pants down to the knees, exposing his buttocks, pale and enormous.
Then the door banged open and the lights flashed on. Mr. Hale stood in the doorway, wearing a velvet robe, his hair sticking up in white spikes. He blinked once or twice.
“Esmeralda,” he said: “Have you got some explanation for this?”
“Oh, sir,” she said, and started to wail.
“Jesus Christ,” said Boucicaut, backhanding the side of her face.
“Now, just one minute,” said Mr. Hale, stepping forward.
That was a mistake. Without getting up, Boucicaut grabbed the tool belt and swung it at him. Something hard caught Mr. Hale on the point of the chin, carving a deep red notch. He went white, fell back against the doorjamb. The maid wailed again and Boucicaut hit her again, much harder this time. He rose, his pants falling around his ankles and over the maid’s hips, revealing Boucicaut’s sagging belly and an erection beneath it, surprisingly unimposing. He looked at Gil.
“We’re gonna need tape or something.”
Gil wanted to say, “What for?” but he knew he couldn’t let Mr. Hale hear his voice. He shrugged.
“Don’t go numb on me, old pal,” Boucicaut said. He gave the maid a little kick. “We need tape, wire, something like that.”
She stared up at him, trembling and silent. Boucicaut turned to Mr. Hale. “Did you hear me, you old asshole?”
Mr. Hale’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“C’mere,” Boucicaut said.
Mr. Hale walked toward him, blood dripping off his chin, onto his velvet robe. He now bore only a distant resemblance to the Mr. Hale Gil knew. This Mr. Hale could have been the other’s father, very old, fragile. When Mr. Hale got within punching distance, Boucicaut said, “Fuck the tape then, if no one’s going to cooperate,” and hit him in the face. Mr. Hale fell backward, his eyes rolling up, then lay still.
“For God’s sake,” Gil said, and was trying to think of a way to calm things down when a movement on the other side of the room caught his eye. A woman was rising stealthily from the couch that faced the window, wrapping her naked body in something filmy. Not a woman like Esmeralda: she was gray-haired and tiny. The context was all wrong, and a few moments passed before Gil realized it was Mrs. Hale. In those few moments, she had plucked the basket-hilt rapier off the wall and advanced on Boucicaut. Standing behind him, Gil said: “Co!”
Boucicaut wheeled around, saw Mrs. Hale coming, a tiny figure, mottled and half naked, one of her empty breasts exposed; but sword arm out straight, knees bent, legs apart, in perfect fencing form, like a stuntman in a Technicolor swashbuckler. Boucicaut laughed out loud, and was still laughing as he stooped to pull up his pants. But they were twisted now, and his posture-still straddling the maid-awkward. Boucicaut lost his balance, fell on his hands and knees. Mrs. Hale strode forward and drove the blade down through the top of his massive shoulder, down into his upper body, longitudinally; her lead foot stamping lightly with the thrust.
An instant later, Mrs. Hale lay face down on the floor with a red seepage in her gray hair and Gil close by, dented flashlight in his hand. Boucicaut, on his knees, the rapier sticking out of his body, looked up at him. “A fuckin’ dyke,” he said. “Whyn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know,” Gil said. And he still hadn’t understood until Boucicaut spoke. Boucicaut had brains, while he was always a step behind.
“Don’t just stand there,” Boucicaut said. “Pull it out.”
“I’m not sure that’s the right thing. We should go to the hospital.”
“You’re out-jokin’ me again, old pal. Not the time.”
Gil dropped the flashlight, slipped his hand into the basket handle. “Get ready for a gusher,” Boucicaut said, his eyes still bright.
Gil pulled. The blade slid free without resistance. There was no gusher, hardly any blood at all, no more than from a shaving cut.
“Well, well,” said Boucicaut. “She missed me.” He got his feet beneath him. Gil held out his hand. Boucicaut ignored it, gathered himself, rose. A little blood flowed out then, but not much.
“Need a hand with the pants though,” Boucicaut said. That’s when they realized that the maid was gone.
Gil ran from the library, into the front hall. “Kill her,” Boucicaut called behind him.
The front door was open. Gil ran out. The sensors had triggered the lights and he could see the maid running, not very fast, across the lawn. Gil tackled her before she reached the road. She went down hard, the breath knocked from her in a little grunt. Gil slung her over his shoulder and carried her up to the garage.
There were three cars inside-Volvo wagon, Mercedes sedan, Saab convertible-and a golf cart. Gil opened the
