"Sunday," he said. He didn't seem worried about it. But I was. Sunday was three days away. My fifth full day there. The final deadline. Whatever was going to happen would have happened by then. The kid was going to be in the crossfire throughout.

"You OK with that?" I asked.

"With going back?"

I nodded. "After what happened."

"We know who did it now," he said. "Some a.s.sholes from Connecticut. It won't happen again."

"You can be that sure?"

He looked at me like I was nuts. "My dad handles stuff like this all the time. And if it's not done by Sunday, then I'll just stay here until it is."

"Does your dad run this whole thing by himself? Or does he have a partner?"

"He runs it all by himself," he said. His ambivalence was gone. He looked happy to be home, secure and comfortable, proud of his dad. His world had contracted to a barren half-acre of lonely granite, hemmed in by the restless sea and a high stone wall topped by razor wire.

"I don't think you really killed that cop," he said.

The kitchen went quiet. I stared at him.

"I think you just wounded him," he said. "I'm hoping so, anyway. You know, maybe he's recovering right now. In a hospital somewhere. That's what I'm thinking. You should try to do the same. Think positive. It's better that way. Then you can have the silver lining without the cloud."

"I don't know," I said.

"So just pretend," he said. "Use the power of positive thinking. Say to yourself, I did a good thing and there was no downside."

"Your dad called the local police," I said. "I don't think there was any room for doubt."

"So just pretend," he said again. "That's what I do. Bad things didn't happen unless you choose to recall them."

He had stopped eating and his left hand was up at the left side of his head. He was smiling brightly, but his subconscious was recalling some bad things, right there and then. That was clear. It was recalling them big time.

"OK," I said. "It was just a flesh wound."

"In and out," he said. "Clean as a whistle."

I said nothing.

"Missed everything by a fraction," he said. "It was a miracle."

I nodded. It would have been some kind of a miracle. That was for d.a.m.n sure. Shoot somebody in the chest with a soft-nose.44 Magnum and you blow a hole in them the size of Rhode Island. Death is generally instantaneous. The heart stops immediately, mostly because it isn't there anymore. I figured the kid hadn't seen anybody shot before. Then I thought, but maybe he has. And maybe he didn't like it very much.

"Positive thinking," he said. "That's the key. Just a.s.sume he's warm and comfortable somewhere, making a full recovery."

"What's in the shipment?" I asked.

"Fakes, probably," he said. "From Pakistan. We get two-hundred-year-old Persians made there. People are such suckers."

"Are they?"

He looked at me and nodded. "They see what they want to see."

"Do they?"

"All the time."

I looked away. There was no coffee. After a while you realize that caffeine is addictive. I was irritated. And tired.

"What are you doing today?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I said.

"I'm just going to read," he said. "Maybe stroll a little. Walk the sh.o.r.eline, see what washed up in the night."

"Things wash up?"

"Sometimes. You know, things fall off boats."

I looked at him. Was he telling me something? I had heard of smugglers floating bales of marijuana ash.o.r.e in isolated places. I guessed the same system would work for heroin.

Was he telling me something? Or was he warning me? Did he know about my hidden bundle of hardware? And what was all that stuff about the shot cop? Psychobabble? Or was he playing games with me? "But that's mostly in the summer," he said. "It's too cold for boats right now. So I guess I'll stay inside. Maybe I'll paint."

"You paint?"

"I'm an art student," he said. "I told you that."

I nodded. Stared at the back of the cook's head, like I could induce her to make coffee by telepathy. Then Duke came in. He walked over to where I was sitting. Placed one hand on the back of my chair and the other flat on the table. Bent low, like he needed to have a confidential conversation.

"Your lucky day, a.s.shole," he said.

I said nothing.

"You're driving Mrs. Beck," he said. "She wants to go shopping."

"Where?"

"Wherever," he said.

"All day?"

"It better be."

I nodded. Don't trust the stranger on shipment day.

"Take the Cadillac," he said. He dropped the keys on the table. "Make sure she doesn't rush back."

Or, don't trust Mrs. Beck on shipment day.

"OK," I said.

"You'll find it very interesting," he said. "Especially the first part. Gives me a h.e.l.l of a kick, anyway, every single time."

I had no idea what he meant, and I didn't waste time speculating about it. I just stared at the empty coffee pot and Duke left and a moment later I heard the front door open and close. The metal detector beeped twice. Duke and Beck, guns and keys. Richard got up from the table and wandered out and I was left alone with the cook.

"Got any coffee?" I asked her.

"No," she said.

I sat there until I finally figured that a dutiful chauffeur should be ready and waiting, so I headed out through the back door. The metal detector beeped politely at the keys. The tide was all the way in and the air was cold and fresh. I could smell salt and seaweed. The swell was gone and I could hear waves breaking. I walked around to the garage block and started the Cadillac and backed it out. Drove it around to the carriage circle and waited there with the motor running to get the heater going. I could see tiny ships on the horizon heading in and out of Portland. They crawled along just beyond the line where the sky met the water, half-hidden, infinitely slow. I wondered if one of them was Beck's, or whether it was in already, all tied up and set for unloading. I wondered whether a Customs officer was already walking right past it, eyes front, heading for the next ship in line, a wad of crisp new bills in his pocket.

Elizabeth Beck came out of the house ten minutes later. She was wearing a knee-length plaid skirt and a thin white sweater with a wool coat over it. Her legs were bare. No panty hose. Her hair was pulled back with a rubber band. She looked cold. And defiant, and resigned, and apprehensive. Like a n.o.blewoman walking to the guillotine. I guessed she was used to having Duke drive her. I guessed she was a little conflicted about riding with the cop-killer. I got out and made ready to open the rear door. She walked right past it.

"I'll sit in front," she said.

She settled herself in the pa.s.senger seat and I slid back in next to her.

"Where to?" I asked politely.

She stared out her window.

"We'll talk about that when we're through the gate," she said.

The gate was closed and Paulie was standing dead-center in front of it. His shoulders and arms looked like he had basketb.a.l.l.s stuffed inside his suit. The skin on his face was red with cold. He had been waiting there for us. I stopped the car six feet in front of him. He made no move toward the gate. I looked straight at him. He ignored me and tracked around to Elizabeth Beck's window. Smiled at her and tapped on the gla.s.s with his knuckles and made a winding motion with his hand. She stared straight ahead through the windshield. Tried to ignore him. He tapped again. She turned to look at him. He raised his eyebrows. Made the winding motion again. She shuddered. It was enough of a definite physical spasm to rock the car on its springs. She stared hard at one of her fingernails and then placed it on the window b.u.t.ton and pressed. The gla.s.s buzzed down.

Paulie squatted with his right forearm on the door frame.

"Good morning," he said.

He leaned in and touched her cheek with the back of his forefinger. Elizabeth Beck didn't move. Just stared straight ahead. He tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

"I enjoyed our visit last night," he said.

She shuddered again. Like she was deathly cold. He moved his hand. Dropped it to her breast. Cupped it. Squeezed it. She sat still for it. I used the b.u.t.ton on my side. Her gla.s.s buzzed up. Then it stalled against Paulie's giant arm and the safety feature kicked in and it came back down again. I opened my door and slid out. Rounded the hood. Paulie was still squatting down. He still had his hand inside the car. It had moved a little lower.

"Back off," he said, looking at her, talking to me.

I felt like a lumberjack confronting a redwood tree without an ax or a chainsaw. Where do I start? I kicked him in the kidney. It was the kind of kick that would have sent a football out of the stadium and into the parking lot. It would have cracked a utility pole. It would have put most guys in the hospital all by itself. It would have killed some of them.

It had about as much effect on Paulie as a polite tap on the shoulder. He didn't even make a noise. He just put both hands on the door frame and slowly pushed himself upright.

Turned around to face me.

"Relax, Major," he said. "Just my way of saying good morning to the lady."

Then he moved away from the car and looped right around me and unlocked the gate. I watched him. He was very calm. No sign of a reaction. It was like I hadn't touched him at all. I stood still and let the adrenaline drain away. Then I looked at the car. At the trunk, and at the hood. To walk around the trunk would say I'm scared of you. So I walked around the hood instead. But I made sure to stay well out of his reach. I had no desire to give some surgeon six months' work rebuilding the bones in my face. The closest I got to him was about five feet. He made no move on me. Just cranked the gate all the way open and stood there patiently waiting to close it again.

"We'll talk about that kick later, OK?" he called.

I didn't reply.

"And don't get the wrong impression, Major," he said. "She likes it."

I got back in the car. Elizabeth Beck had closed her window. She was staring straight ahead, pale and silent and humiliated. I drove through the gate. Headed west. Watched Paulie in the mirror. He closed the gate and headed back inside the lodge. Disappeared from sight.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Elizabeth said quietly.

I said nothing.

"And thank you for your intervention," she said. "But it will prove futile. And I'm afraid it will bring you a lot of trouble. He already hates you, you know. And he's not very rational."

I said nothing.

"It's a control thing, of course," she said. It was like she was explaining it to herself. It wasn't like she was talking to me. "It's a demonstration of power. That's all it is. There's no actual s.e.x. He can't do it. Too many steroids, I suppose. He just paws me."

I said nothing.

"He makes me undress," she said. "Makes me parade around for him. Paws me. There's no s.e.x. He's impotent."

I said nothing. Just drove slow, keeping the car steady and level through the coastal curves.

"It usually lasts about an hour," she said.

"Have you told your husband?" I asked.

"What could he do?"

"Fire the guy."

"Not possible," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because Paulie doesn't work for my husband."

I glanced at her. Recalled telling Duke: You should get rid of him. Duke had answered: That's not easy.

"So who does he work for?" I said.

"Somebody else."

"Who?"

She shook her head. It was like she couldn't speak the name.

"It's a control thing," she said again. "I can't object to what they do to me, just like my husband can't object to what they do to him. n.o.body can object. To anything, you see.

That's the point. You won't be allowed to object to anything, either. Duke wouldn't think to object, of course. He's an animal."