man on the beach. She was far less confident when it came to Castellano. Only Mrs. Castellano’s presence kept her from being truly frightened of him now. Wrapped in shadows, away from the klieg lights and the crowd on the beach, the bulky darkness of him looming so close made her stomach twist.
He could have been the man on the beach.
“I’d like to get a formal statement from you tomorrow, if you’ll come down to the station,” Castellano said. Christy was already halfway across the patio.
“I’ll be there,” she replied over her shoulder, faking a cooperativeness she did not feel, and reached the patio door. They watched until she was inside. Flipping on the outside light, she waved, called “good night,” and slid the door shut.
And locked it. And drew the curtains. Then stood with her back pressed against it, eyes closed, chest tight.
It’s over, she told herself. You’re safe. You’re free.
All she had to do was pack and get the hell off this island. But first she needed to calm down. Put the nightmare on the beach behind her. Rejoice in being once again snug inside her own living room.
Her own dark living room.
Hadn’t she left a light on?
Christy’s eyes popped open. Enough yellowish light filtered in around the edges of the curtains to allow her to see. Her gaze flew to the floor lamp beside the couch. Her heart gave a great leap in her chest. She had left it on. She knew she had. She was— almost —one hundred percent positive.
Maybe the bulb had burned out.
Christy barely had time to register that as a legitimate possibility when the phone rang. She jumped at the sudden shrill sound, then hesitated as she made an automatic move to answer.
Who could be calling her here? Only a few people knew where she was. And none of them would call at this hour.
It could be a wrong number. Or a crank call. Christy prayed that it was one or the other even as she flipped on the overhead light and started for the phone, which rested on the tile-topped breakfast bar. Of course it was something like that.
But her sixth sense would not let her believe it.
Her sixth sense was signaling trouble again.
The phone was beginning its seventh ring when she finally got up enough nerve to pick up the receiver and put it to her ear.
“Hello?” she said.
4
F ROWNING THOUGHTFULLY, Luke let himself in to the small, ranch-style house that was his temporary home cum office. He was halfway across the lamp-lit living room before he noticed Gary, who had no business being in the house because he was supposed to be staking out the damned briefcase Christy Petrino had carted down to the beach a couple of hours earlier. Wearing headphones, Gary was waving frantically at him from Command Central, which was actually the tiny third bedroom.
Gary Freeman, Luke had decided early on in the course of their now three-day-old association, was his boss’s revenge. All the late expense reports, the government-owned car Luke had wrecked and the other one he’d gotten blown up, the informant who’d disappeared with fifty thousand of the government’s cash, obviously still rankled with Tom Boyce. Sticking him with Gary the Geek, as he was known to his fellow agents behind his back for, among other things, his computer expertise, had to be payback. It was the only way Luke could explain it. Right now, despite the heat,despite the beach, despite the fact that they were trying to run a middle-of-the-night surveillance operation, for God’s sake, Gary was his usual Boy Scout–neat self. Picture Howdy Doody with Coke-bottle glasses and you basically had Gary. At the moment he wore well-pressed khaki slacks, a short-sleeved, button-down blue shirt that was tucked in and belted, polished leather dress shoes and dark socks. He was four years younger than Luke’s own age of thirty-two, four inches shorter at five-nine and probably a good forty pounds lighter.
“Pick up,” Gary mouthed urgently, pointing at his headphones as Luke
He could have been the man on the beach.
“I’d like to get a formal statement from you tomorrow, if you’ll come down to the station,” Castellano said. Christy was already halfway across the patio.
“I’ll be there,” she replied over her shoulder, faking a cooperativeness she did not feel, and reached the patio door. They watched until she was inside. Flipping on the outside light, she waved, called “good night,” and slid the door shut.
And locked it. And drew the curtains. Then stood with her back pressed against it, eyes closed, chest tight.
It’s over, she told herself. You’re safe. You’re free.
All she had to do was pack and get the hell off this island. But first she needed to calm down. Put the nightmare on the beach behind her. Rejoice in being once again snug inside her own living room.
Her own dark living room.
Hadn’t she left a light on?
Christy’s eyes popped open. Enough yellowish light filtered in around the edges of the curtains to allow her to see. Her gaze flew to the floor lamp beside the couch. Her heart gave a great leap in her chest. She had left it on. She knew she had. She was— almost —one hundred percent positive.
Maybe the bulb had burned out.
Christy barely had time to register that as a legitimate possibility when the phone rang. She jumped at the sudden shrill sound, then hesitated as she made an automatic move to answer.
Who could be calling her here? Only a few people knew where she was. And none of them would call at this hour.
It could be a wrong number. Or a crank call. Christy prayed that it was one or the other even as she flipped on the overhead light and started for the phone, which rested on the tile-topped breakfast bar. Of course it was something like that.
But her sixth sense would not let her believe it.
Her sixth sense was signaling trouble again.
The phone was beginning its seventh ring when she finally got up enough nerve to pick up the receiver and put it to her ear.
“Hello?” she said.
4
F ROWNING THOUGHTFULLY, Luke let himself in to the small, ranch-style house that was his temporary home cum office. He was halfway across the lamp-lit living room before he noticed Gary, who had no business being in the house because he was supposed to be staking out the damned briefcase Christy Petrino had carted down to the beach a couple of hours earlier. Wearing headphones, Gary was waving frantically at him from Command Central, which was actually the tiny third bedroom.
Gary Freeman, Luke had decided early on in the course of their now three-day-old association, was his boss’s revenge. All the late expense reports, the government-owned car Luke had wrecked and the other one he’d gotten blown up, the informant who’d disappeared with fifty thousand of the government’s cash, obviously still rankled with Tom Boyce. Sticking him with Gary the Geek, as he was known to his fellow agents behind his back for, among other things, his computer expertise, had to be payback. It was the only way Luke could explain it. Right now, despite the heat,despite the beach, despite the fact that they were trying to run a middle-of-the-night surveillance operation, for God’s sake, Gary was his usual Boy Scout–neat self. Picture Howdy Doody with Coke-bottle glasses and you basically had Gary. At the moment he wore well-pressed khaki slacks, a short-sleeved, button-down blue shirt that was tucked in and belted, polished leather dress shoes and dark socks. He was four years younger than Luke’s own age of thirty-two, four inches shorter at five-nine and probably a good forty pounds lighter.
“Pick up,” Gary mouthed urgently, pointing at his headphones as Luke
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