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The other man’s pale blue eyes looked beyond Ellis, into the past. “Ah, but this is Sabin we’re talking about, not some ordinary man. How many times has he slipped away from us? Too many for me to trust that it was so easy to kill him. We found no remains on the boat, and if, as you say, he either drowned or was attacked by sharks, there still would have been some evidence. We’ve patrolled these waters for two days without finding anything. The logical thing to do is to move our search to shore.”
“We’ll be exposing ourselves if we do.”
The woman smiled. “Not if we do it right. We must simply be discreet. Our biggest danger is the possibility that he was picked up by another boat and taken to a hospital. If he’s had the opportunity to talk to someone, to make some calls, we won’t be able to get near him. First we must find him, though. I agree with Charles. Too much is at stake for us to simply assume that he’s dead.”
Ellis’s face was grim. “Do you have any idea how large an area we’ll have to cover?”
Charles drew a map of Florida closer. “Our position was here,” he said, marking the spot with an X. “Given the distance and the tides, which I’ve already checked, I think we should concentrate our efforts in this area.” He drew a long oval on the map and tapped it with his pen. “Noelle, check all the hospitals in the area, and also the police blotters, to find if anyone has been treated for a gunshot wound. While you’re doing that we’ll be searching every inch of the coastline.” He leaned back in his chair and surveyed Ellis with his arctic gaze. “Can you contact your people and find out without arousing suspicions if he’s called anyone?”
Ellis shrugged. “I have a reliable contact.”
“Then make it. We may have waited too long as it is.”
He would make the call, Ellis thought, but he was sure it would be a waste of time. Sabin was dead; these people persisted in acting as if he were some sort of superman who could disappear into thin air, then miraculously reappear. Okay, so he’d had a reputation when he was in the field; that had been years ago. He would have lost his edge since then, sitting around at a dull desk job the way he’d been doing. No, Sabin was dead; Ellis was certain of it.
RACHEL SAT ON the front porch swing, a newspaper spread across her lap and heaped with green beans. A dishpan sat on the swing beside her, and she systematically broke the tips off the beans and peeled the string off them, then broke the pods into inch-long sections, which she dropped into the dishpan. She didn’t like stringing green beans, but she liked to eat them, so it was a necessary evil. She kept the swing gently swaying and listened to a portable radio set on the windowsill. She was listening to an FM country station, but the volume was turned low because she didn’t want to disturb her patient, who was sleeping peacefully.
She had spent the morning expecting him to finally wake up for good, but instead he was still alternating between periods of deep sleep, when the aspirin and sponging got his fever down, and restlessness, when his temperature soared. He hadn’t opened his eyes or spoken again, though once he had groaned and held his shoulder with his right hand until Rachel loosened his grip and held his hand, soothing him with soft murmurs of reassurance.
Joe eased up from his position under the oleander bush, a rumble forming in his throat. Rachel glanced at him, then swept her gaze around the yard and toward the road, to the left, but could see nothing. It wasn’t like Joe to pay any attention to squirrels or rabbits. “What is it?” she asked, unable to keep the tightness of apprehension out of her voice, and Joe responded to her tone by moving to stand directly in front of the steps. The rumble was a full-fledged growl now, and he was staring toward the pine thicket, toward the slope that led down to Diamond Bay.
Two men were coming out of the thicket.
Rachel continued to string and snap the beans as if she were totally unconcerned, but she felt every muscle in her body tense. She stared at them, openly, deciding that that would be the normal thing to do. They were dressed casually, in lightweight cotton canvas pants and pullover shirts, with loose cotton jackets. Rachel eyed the jackets. The temperature was ninety-nine degrees and it wasn’t quite noon yet, so it promised to get hotter. Jackets were anything but practical—unless they were needed to hide shoulder holsters.
As the men crossed the road and approached the house Joe’s growls became snarls, and he crouched, the hair along his neck lifted. The men halted, and Rachel caught the movement one man made beneath his jacket before he halted himself. “Sorry about that,” she called, leisurely putting aside the beans and getting to her feet. “Joe doesn’t like strangers in general, and men in particular. He won’t even let the neighbor in the yard. Guess some man abused him once. Are you lost, or has your boat quit on you?” As she talked she came down the steps and laid a calming hand on Joe’s back, feeling the way he shifted a little away from her.
“Neither. We’re looking for someone.” The man who answered her was tall and good-looking, with sandy brown hair and an open, college-boy smile that flashed whitely in his tanned face. He glanced down at Joe. “Uh, do you want to get a better hold on the dog?”
“He’ll be all right, as long as you don’t come any nearer to the house.” Rachel hoped that was true. Giving Joe another pat, she walked past him and approached the men. “I don’t think it’s me he’s protecting as much as his territory. Now what was it you said?”
The other man was shorter, slimmer and darker than Mr. All-American College Boy. “FBI,” he said briskly, flashing a badge in front of her nose. “I’m Agent Lowell. This is Agent Ellis. We’r
e looking for a man we think might be in this area.”
Rachel wrinkled her forehead, praying she wasn’t overdoing it. “An escaped convict?”
Agent Ellis’s gaze had been appreciatively measuring Rachel’s long, bare legs, but now his eyes lifted to her face. “No, but prison is where we’re trying to put him. We think he may have come ashore somewhere in this area.”
“Haven’t seen any strangers around here, but I’ll keep a sharp watch. What does he look like?”
“Six feet tall, maybe a little taller. Black hair, black eyes.”
“Seminole?”
Both men looked startled. “No, he’s not an Indian,” Agent Lowell finally said. “But he’s dark, sort of Indian-looking.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
A quick look passed between the two men. “No.”
“Is he dangerous? I mean, a murderer, or anything like that?” A lump had formed in her chest and was rising toward her throat. What would she do if they told her he was a murderer? How could she bear it?
Again that look, as if they weren’t sure what to tell her. “He should be considered armed and dangerous. If you see anything at all suspicious give us a call at this number.” Agent Lowell scribbled a telephone number on a piece of paper and gave it to Rachel, who glanced at it before folding it and putting it in her pocket.
“I’ll do that,” she said. “Thank you for coming by.”
They started to leave; then Agent Lowell paused and turned back to her, his eyes narrowed. “There are some strange marks on the beach down there, as if something has been dragged. Do you know anything about them?”
