“She’s responsible for that producer, and that woman, who died in one of my cars. Who went off the cliff in California. And I know she had Rhonda killed.”
“Well, that may well be,” Derek said, “and I’ve always thought you were right, thinking she was behind all those things. So let’s say it’s true, that the head honcho of Arrival was a bad, bad person. Are you telling me that justifies killing all these innocent people on this island? Where’s the balance in that, Mr. Kyle?”
Kyle looked out the window again at the black smoke filling the sky.
“Did the person who helped you have any idea?”
“What?”
“I know you had someone help you, someone here, today, someone on the inside, who could give you the key that would allow you to access the Arrival system. Did your insider have any idea they were helping you kick-start a massacre?”
Kyle took a moment before answering. “I would imagine not,” he said. “I am willing to concede that the... modifications I introduced into the Arrival network have proven to be more profound than even I’d hoped for.” He was unable to hold back a smile. “I got lucky.”
Derek recoiled. “You’re delighted.”
“I am not displeased, Derek.”
“You have to end it. You made your point. Arrival is finished. Make the cars stop.”
“I can’t,” Kyle said. “The virus is irreversible.”
Derek mulled that over. He adopted a reflective, thoughtful, look.
“I could be wrong, but I think, long as I sit here, in this building, the cars can’t get to me. Those people escapin’ in boats are welcome to do that, but I think it’s a bit over the top. Stay in your house, go sit on the roof. Whatever. That’ll work. Sooner or later, help has to arrive. You get a bunch of guys here with bazookas, they’ll give these little golf carts something to think about.”
“Derek,” Kyle said slowly, “you can’t sit here and ride this out. You have to get me off this fucking island. When the dust settles, I can’t be found here. Find us another boat.”
Derek shook his head slowly and deliberatively. “Nope. Not doin’ it. Not gonna find you a boat. I hereby submit my resignation. Maybe I can find something to write it on, if you’d like. Would a paper napkin do?”
“I won’t accept your resignation.”
“Too bad.”
“I’ll pay you. A bonus. I’ll pay you a big bonus. I still have money, Derek. Not what I once had, but there’s money that I’ve hidden, squirreled away, in accounts all over the world. A lot of it in cash. Get me off this fucking island and there’s a hundred thousand in cash for you. If you want to quit then, fine.”
Derek shook his head.
“Two hundred,” Kyle said. “Two hundred thousand.” He managed a grin. “Come on, when are you ever going to get an offer like that again?”
“Make it five,” Derek said.
Kyle smiled again, as though impressed by Derek’s bargaining efforts. “We have a deal. Five hundred thousand. Just get me off this goddamn rock.”
“No,” Derek said.
“But—”
“I just wanted to see how high you’d go.” He opened up the napkin and looked at the melting ice. “I hope they’ve got more of this, because I’m in the mood for a scotch.” He pushed back his chair and stood. He looked longingly toward the bar, then back at Kyle, who was also getting to his feet.
“If I was you,” Derek said, “I’d find my way to the ferry. Should still be running. On foot, going cross-country — which right now is probably the safest way to go — you might make it in an hour. I’ve heard others talking about headin’ that way. I’m gonna hunt up that drink. I’d invite you to join me, but you should get a move on.”
Brandon Kyle studied his former employee for another three seconds, trying to think of some great parting shot, and, coming up with nothing, turned and started walking.
The man who’d been behind the counter was now standing just outside the door, arguing with some other people who were trying to get him to accept a wad of cash in exchange for a boat to get them off the island.
He slipped quickly behind the counter. There were several shelves and a set of three drawers to one side.
The shelves were filled with paperwork, postcards, a cordless credit card machine, a phone book, maps, and Garrett Island guidebooks. When Kyle didn’t find what he was looking for among those items, he started pulling out the drawers.
He found the Glock in the middle one.
Kyle quickly tucked it into an inside pocket of his sport jacket, then walked out of the yacht club.
Derek’s suggestion, that he head for the ferry, struck him now as a good one. All he had to do was figure out how to get there.
Twenty-Five
Lillian Bridgeman, her hands gripped tightly on the wheels of her chair, pulled herself back up her driveway another full rotation.
Squeak.
She’d managed to conquer the tickle in her throat and had not coughed again, but the Arrival at the end of her drive, with poor dead Daniella trapped beneath it, had heard her wheelchair that so desperately needed a shot of WD-40.
The Arrival was starting to turn into her driveway.
Lillian was only one more full rotation away from the ramp that led back up to the front porch of her home. But her aging arms were already screaming with pain. The ramp, with railings on both sides, was slightly wider than three feet, definitely narrower than the car. Once she was on it, she believed she’d be safe, so long as she could hold her position, didn’t roll back.
Lillian plotted out how she would accomplish this.
Once she’d reached the ramp, she’d want to be facing up the slope, looking toward the porch, her eyes on the prize, so to speak. If the car managed to get to her, it might inadvertently give her a push. Better that, than looking down the slope and having her legs crushed below the knees.
Okay, one more time. She pulled back on the wheels.
Squeak.
Lillian, now at a right angle with the base of the ramp, watched as the Arrival crept toward her. She wanted to scream at it, tell it to leave her alone, but feared that would provoke it into a sudden attack.
She pushed her left wheel forward, and pulled her right wheel back, pivoting the chair forty-five degrees. Now, she was looking straight up the ramp.
The car stopped.
Lillian breathed shallowly, her hands gripped to the wheels, not moving a muscle. She was summoning her strength. Not just physical, but mental. She was going to have to send a message to her aging arms and brittle shoulders that no matter how tired they might get, or how much they might hurt, they had to keep on going.
She did a countdown in her head.
Five... four... three... two... ONE.
With everything she had she pushed the wheels forward. The chair scooted nearly three feet up the ramp.
The car, like a cat seeing a mouse try to make a break for it, moved in for the kill.
The wheelchair slid back six inches as Lillian repositioned her hands for another rotation. No time for a countdown. She gripped the wheels and pushed. Her arms and shoulders were sending her a message: Are you fucking kidding?
And Lillian shot back: Shut up and do as you’re told.
She focused on the front door as the chair made its ascent. Two feet this time. She managed to move her hands forward quickly enough that she didn’t lose ground this time.
The sharp sound of wood being crushed and snapped, inches behind her, proved motivating.
The Arrival had turned and was struggling up the ramp. The front right wheel had gained purchase on the wood planking, but the other wheel had dropped off the edge and was spinning in the air. The car had taken out the railing’s bottom post.