Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 14

of the St. Marks police, and Teddy wished he had eliminated him, too. Maybe he still would.
    Nevertheless, he would make preparations. He got a small sledge and a chisel and began to cut into the concrete floor along a line only he would have noticed. Soon, he had freed a piece of plywood that had been concealed by an inch of concrete. He pulled it back to reveal a compartment that contained equipment, much of which he considered important and some of which he considered essential to his continued survival.
    He removed a small, hard-shelled leather suitcase, dialed in the combinations of both locks and opened it. He chose a blade in his Swiss Army knife and carefully pried up the false bottom. Arrayed around the floor of the hidden compartment was a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills; on top of that lay eight passports, four of them American, two British and two from New Zealand. There was also a selection of flat rubber stamps for entering various visas and entry and departure markings. Finally, there was a Colt government .380 pistol, which looked like a tiny model 1911 .45, and half a dozen loaded magazines. All of this took up a space an inch and a half deep.
    He closed the hidden compartment, set the case on his workbench and added other items: two changes of clothes, including a wash-and-wear suit, a pair of shoes and a folding felt hat. He was unaccustomed to running with such a small cache of things, but there was more in the airplane he had hangared on the island of Nevis, not so many miles away.
    He had been surprised at the speed with which the police had shut down all departures from St. Marks, but he was equipped to deal with it. He removed the charger alligator clips from the battery of his new possession and made sure everything was ready to be quickly taken outside and assembled.
    When he was satisfied that he was ready to run, if necessary, he stretched out on a cot and fell quickly asleep. He had always been able to do that.

    D uBois rang the bell at the Pemberton house and waited impatiently for someone to answer it. No one came. “Bring me the tire iron from the car,” he called to his driver.
    The man opened the rear of the vehicle and trotted over with the tool. “Here you are, Captain.”
    DuBois was surprised at how long it took him to break into the house, and he made a mess of the door before he was finally able to open it. He walked into the living room, his pistol in hand, and looked around. It was all very ordinary. He checked the bedrooms and in the master found clothing for a man and a woman; the kitchen contained canned and frozen foods; there was no cellar. There was a fine coat of dust on everything, and it looked as if it had been weeks since anyone had been here, yet the immigration records he had checked put Pemberton, if not his wife, on the island.
    He closed the door as best he could and got back into the Land Rover. “Next house: Weatherby, farther up the mountain,” he said to the driver.
    They turned into the Weatherby driveway and stopped. This was a small house, once the guest quarters for the larger house owned by the American woman at the top of the mountain. He broke into the house, just as he had the Pemberton place.

    T eddy was wakened from his nap by a tiny beeping; someone was upstairs. He watched the blinking lights on the panel that told him someone was walking from room to room. He decided not to be cornered; he let himself out of his redoubt, closed it up and left at a trot.

    D uBois walked through the house, surprised. The house was furnished, but there was no indication that anyone had ever lived in it—no clothing, no food. He looked under the mattresses on the unmade beds: nothing. But Weatherby was supposed to be on the island, too, according to immigration records. Why was it that neither Pemberton nor Weatherby seemed to have been in his home—in the case of Pemberton, not recently; in the case of Weatherby, never?
    He went back to the Land Rover.
    â€œWhere to, Captain?”
    â€œLet’s go up the mountain; there’s an American woman living there.” He didn’t bother to check the garage.
    The driver took him the few remaining yards and turned into the drive. DuBois noted an SUV and a pickup truck in the garage. He knocked on the door, and the American woman opened it.
    â€œYes, officer?” she asked.
    â€œI am Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police,” he said