I dropped the Korth back on the tampon box and headed back outside.
The sun had dried most of the water from her skin and swimsuit. She sat on the towel, tossing a piece of driftwood for Miata to fetch. The Doberman seemed ecstatic with the game, running back and forth with his mouth open and his tongue flapping, and if he'd had his voice, I'm sure he'd have been barking in delight.
"I want to use a phone," I said.
She didn't look at me. "I can't allow that."
"I have to know if my friends are still alive."
"If you call them, you will tell them where you are. They will come for you. They will alert the authorities. I can't permit that." She held out her hands as Miata returned with the stick, and they played a short game of tug-of-war before he dropped it and crouched, ready to resume the chase again. She hurled the stick end over end a good twenty feet, and he was after it almost before it had left her hand.
"I won't tell them," I said.
She'd been sitting with her hands on her knees, her legs drawn up, and now she stood on the towel. With her index fingers, she pulled the elastic at the seat of the suit, making the fabric taut again. She had a swimmer's body, with a powerful torso and defined muscles in her shoulders and arms.
When Miata had returned and then left again in pursuit of the same stick, she said, "You will do the job?"
"I can't answer that until I talk to my friends."
"I will pay you three million dollars, and provide you with any equipment you require. I will transfer the money to the accounts you specify, or show you how to establish a new one, one that will keep the money safe and hidden."
"I haven't said I'll do it. I need to use a phone first."
She picked up the towel and shook it out. Miata came back and dropped the stick at her feet, and she said something to the dog in Russian, and the dog, for a moment, looked annoyed.
"Follow," she commanded.
I wasn't sure if she was talking to me or to the Doberman.
The keypad to unlock the basement door was hidden behind the light switch, and the code was long and she blocked my view of the sequence with her body.
The room was enormous, though mostly empty, a concrete bunker with a low ceiling. A couple of mats were spread out on the floor in the middle of the space; heavy, sway, and speed bags hung just past them. A weight bench was in the corner, a stack of plates beside it. A single column stood in the center of the mats, wrapped in gray and black foam and held in place with duct tape. At the far end of the room was a man-shaped silhouette, plywood painted black, and farther along more mats, these positioned in front of a series of floor-length mirrors. A dance barre was bolted to the wall nearby. On the left-hand wall as I entered, about halfway down, was an alcove, and another door, closed. The scent of cordite lingered, stale in the air.
She led the way in without stopping, saying only, "My hard room."
To the right of the door ran a long metal counter that turned at the corner and continued down for several more feet. There was only one chair, positioned in front of a battery of video monitors, all on, that fed their images into a stack of VCRs to one side. The monitors covered both interior and exterior access to the house, and stretched along a fair portion of the beach. A laptop computer handled the alarm system, with a map of the house on the screen, showing all the open doors and windows.
At the end of the counter was the handset for a satellite phone, and she switched the power on, waiting for the red light on its face to stop blinking and verify a signal lock. The dish for the phone had to be outside somewhere, but with all the foliage, she could have left it unconcealed and nobody would ever find it.
"Who are you calling?" she asked.
"My home."
She knew the number, activating the speaker and then dialing. She leaned back against the console, giving me room to access the phone, but keeping one finger on the power switch. From the grill, I heard the beep and whistle of the satellite. The phone rang three times before it was answered by Erika Wyatt.
"Hello?" The connection was clear, as if I was calling from Midge's apartment below, and Erika's voice was full of fatigue.
"It's Atticus."
She shrieked so loudly, the noise echoed off the concrete all around us, clearly delighted that I was alive. I tried not to let Alena see me grin.
"Oh my God!" Erika said. "Where have you been? Where are you?"
Alena was moving her finger lightly back and forth over the switch. Her expression said to hurry up.
"Where have you been, Atticus? Are you all right? Jesus, everyone's been so worried about you…"
"I'm fine," I said. "Is Bridgett there? Natalie?"
"No, no, I mean, Natalie's at the office and Bridgett went with Agent Dude to look for you, they sent divers into the Hudson looking for you, you know that? Oh my God, it's so good to hear your voice…"
"Erika, listen. I need you to tell me what happened."
"What happened? You disappeared, that's what happened, you should be telling me what happened…"
Alena was making a whirling motion with the index finger of her free hand, telling me to wrap it up. I said, "Erika, I'm all right. But I need to know if everyone there is okay."
"They've been really worried about you, it's even been in the papers…"
"Dale and Corry and everyone?"
"They're all fine. What's going on? Where are you?"
"It may be a while before I get back."
"But why? Where are you…"
"I'll be in touch as soon as I can," I said, but Erika never heard it, because Drama had already killed the connection.
"You didn't have to do that," I said. "I was wrapping it up."
"You were wasting time."
"I wanted her to know I was all right. You made a choice to remove yourself from humanity, to live on an island. But I have people, and I owe them consideration for their feelings."
She shut off the power to the phone and folded her arms over her chest. It was cooler in the basement, and goose bumps had risen on her arms and legs.
"He'll kill us both," I said.
"I don't think he will. I think we can stop him."
"And then what happens? Whichever way this goes, it'll end in death."
"Yes. It will be him or me."
"And if it's him…"
"I will not kill you," she said.
"I am a fool, I admit that without provision," I said. "But I'm not an idiot. If Oxford dies, and you live, and I'm alive, you've got to kill me, or else your little Paradise Island is revealed for all to see."
"You don't understand. I am done, I have quit. Oxford will be the last life I take. After that, I am an assassin no more. I would not harm you."
"How can I believe you?"
She gestured to the phone, and when I shook my head, she got angry. "I do not know what else to do! I have shown you my life, Atticus, I have asked you for your help, and I have kept my word to you each and every time it was given! What more can I do to earn your trust?"
"Let me walk out of here. Now."
She pushed off the counter and practically ran to the door, yanking it open and gesturing for me to go through.
"Go. Go ahead! Go!"
I went out the door and up the stairs, hearing her swearing in Russian behind me. On the ground floor I crossed the living room and went out onto the patio, then down the steps. The abrupt change in temperature brought sweat onto my skin. Across the driveway I met up with the little road, following it under the shade of a grove of mahogany trees. Birds were singing.
Something rustled in the foliage, and I turned around, ready to shout at her that I'd known she was a liar, and that at least she could be bothered not to shoot me in the back.
Miata was standing on the road, looking at me, and I scowled. He blinked, curious perhaps as to why I was suddenly so angry at him. Then he snuffed the air and turned back toward the house.