High Noon

paper or much of anything else, Phoebe took mental notes. “Yes. For me, specifically? I’m on Whitfield Island, at a friend’s. I’ll be there as soon as I can. All right. Yes, all right. I’ll be headed out in five minutes.”
    In fact she was already up and hurrying toward the house as she spoke. “Tell him I’m en route. No, no, don’t.” She glanced at Duncan as he pushed the door open for her. “I have access to a very fast car, but I’ll need a kit. I’ll call you back when I’m on the road.”
    She clicked off.
    “I need to borrow your Porsche.”
    “No problem, but it comes with me at the wheel.”
    “I can’t take you where I’m going.”
    “Yes, you can,” he corrected as they ran up the stairs.
    “Duncan.” She tossed off her robe as she rushed into his bedroom. “There’s a man chained to a grave at Bonaventure Cemetery.” She grabbed clothes. “All he’s wearing, apparently, is a vest of explosives.”
    “If he’s going to blow himself up, I hope he’s already got a reservation. Bonaventure’s pretty full up.”
    “He’s the hostage,” she snapped back as she pulled on clothes. “He’s claiming to be, and he claims whoever strapped the bomb on him ordered him to call nine-one-one at a specific time, and ask for me by name. If I’m not there by one, whoever’s holding the trigger pushes it, and he goes up.”
    “Only another reason I’ll be driving. You don’t know the car, I do—and I know the roads better. I’ll get you where you need to be. When’s the last time you drove a six-speed?” he demanded when he saw the argument in her eyes.
    Phoebe dragged on her shoes, nodded. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
    It made more sense to have him driving the Porsche like a hellhound over the island roads toward the bridge. She had her hands and mind free to contact Dave, to take notes.
    “He claims he can’t give his name, not until you get here,” Dave told her. “He’s saying he’s wired for sound as well as the bomb, and the person behind it can hear everything. He’s wearing an ear bud and a mike.”
    “Is he lying?”
    “I don’t think so. I’ll be there inside five minutes myself, but from the sound of it, my professional assessment would be he’s scared shitless. On-scene reports there are a lot of fresh bruises on his face, his torso, arms and legs. So far, he hasn’t told us who did it, how, when, why. He can’t, he says. He can only tell you.”
    “The way we’re moving, I’ll be there inside fifteen. What grave is he chained to?”
    “Jocelyn Ambuceau, 1898 to 1916.”
    “Unlikely that’s random. It or she means something.”
    “Having it run.”
    “Tell me more about the unidentified man.”
    “White, mid-thirties, brown and brown. Solid build. Accent sounds local. No jewelry, no tats. Arms and legs in shackles, shackles hammered into the ground with posts. He’s in his boxers, barefoot. He’s broken down twice since officers arrived. Just cried like a baby. He’s begging us not to let him die. Begging us to get you here. Get Phoebe.”
    “My first name? He calls me by my first name, like he knows me?”
    “That’s my take, yeah.”
    “Tell him I’m nearly there.” As they roared around a turn, she braced a hand against the dash. “Make sure if anyone is listening, they can hear I’m nearly there.” She looked at her watch. “I know it’s nearly deadline, but we’ll make it. Make sure they know I’m coming in. Ten minutes, Captain.”
    “I’m turning in now. I’ll hold things until you get here.”
    She clicked off, looked at Duncan.
    “You’ll make it.” His eyes stayed on the road as he took the car down the little two-lane road at a hundred and ten. “Have you ever dealt with something like this before?”
    “No. Not like this.” She spotted the lights up ahead, got Dave back on the phone. “I see the radio cars. Let them know we’re not stopping at the gate. Have one lead us in.”
    The Porsche fishtailed on the turn, grabbed road and lunged forward again. It was a blur of moss-draped trees, ornate statuary that gleamed under the moon. Heat put a shimmer on the air, on the thin spit of ground fog. Then there were lights up ahead, through dripping arches of trees. The Porsche slammed to a halt behind the radio car, and Phoebe jumped out.
    “You have to stay back,” she shouted at Duncan as she dashed through gravestones and winged angels.
    Dave moved toward her quickly, gripped her arm. “The bomb