In the middle of the wall was a wooden gate as high as the wall. He trudged along the beach after taking off his shoes and socks and rolling up his pant legs. When he was a hundred yards past it, he heard something. He turned to see the gate opening.
Out marched three beefy armed men, obviously security. Behind them was a sand-colored golf cart with cognac-colored seats driven by another security man. A second armed man sat next to him.
In the rear seat of the vehicle was an elderly man in a white robe and Panama hat with a black band. Next to him sat a young woman in a pale blue sheer cover-up.
The old guy was Ballard, Rogers was pretty certain. He was the right age, and who else here would get a chauffeur-driven golf cart ride to the beach?
They drove down near the water and parked. The security men laid out a large blanket, lounge chairs, a table, and a basket. Then they stepped back and formed a ring around the man and woman as they climbed out of the vehicle, the woman supporting the man.
She led him over to one of the chairs and helped him off with his robe. Underneath he had on bathing trunks and a T-shirt. His body was reedy and his chest sunken. He seemed particularly frail. She put sunscreen on his exposed skin and settled him in his chair.
She then took off her cover-up, revealing a sea-foam green string bikini underneath.
She looked like she worked out, not an ounce of fat to be seen. Her skin was tanned, but not too much.
She lay down on the blanket facedown in front of the man, her tight glutes only half covered by the bikini bottom. Ballard didn’t seem to care. He just stared out at the water.
Yet Rogers caught one of the security men taking a peek at the woman before moving his gaze outward. By the time he spotted Rogers, the latter had already turned and was slowly heading down the beach. A hundred yards later Rogers stopped and walked over to the water, letting it rush over his feet.
Is that really Ballard? Probably. And the woman? Girlfriend? Trophy wife? Child? Grandchild? Nurse in a string bikini showing off her bod while grabbing some rays on duty?
The next sound made him turn and look back down the beach.
It was a sound of gathering power.
Then a rumble as that gathering power was set free.
About ten seconds later, the Falcon 2000 cleared the foliage that ran the length of the runway on the beach side, soared into the air, banked hard right over the water, straightened out, and continued its rapid ascent.
Rogers looked over at the man and woman.
The old man was still staring aimlessly out toward the water.
The young woman was up on her haunches and waved.
Rogers turned to follow her gaze and watched the twin plumes of exhaust from the jet’s engines smear the otherwise clear sky.
So who is in the Falcon?
He walked a bit farther out into the water, letting the saltwater edge up his pale ankles. He glanced down and saw the remnants of the old scars on his calves. Every few seconds he would shift his gaze to the left and eye the little group on the beach.
The lunch in the basket was served, the woman dutifully taking care of the old gent. She had put her cover-up back on.
Glasses of wine were poured and drunk.
A bowl of fruit and a plate of cheese picked through.
Sandwiches nibbled.
And then everything was packed up and the golf cart along with the security team headed back up the beach, through the gate, and it closed behind them.
Apparently the king’s sunbathing was over for the day.
Rogers waited a few minutes and then slowly made his way back the way he’d come. He left the sand behind, dried off his feet, put his socks and shoes back on, and trudged to his van. He rubbed the back of his head because it had started to throb again.
He wasn’t sure how much he’d learned today other than that Old Man Ballard had a helluva retirement package, including a beautiful companion to see to his every need.
He had just climbed into the driver’s seat when a car shot past him on the road. It was a silver late-model Mercedes convertible with the top down.
And the bikini woman was driving though she was now wearing a floral sundress.
Rogers hurriedly put the van in gear and pulled onto the road to follow her.
This might just be the opening he needed, he thought.
27
THEY DROVE FOR about five miles. The woman was a reckless driver, taking curves too sharply and often veering into the oncoming lane on the two-lane road before sliding back in the nick of time to avoid traffic coming the other way.
Rogers kept far enough behind her so she wouldn’t grow suspicious, although in the five miles they had passed at least six other white vans. It was the vehicle of choice for the legion of contractors and service people who made their living catering to the homeowners and landlords around here.
At last she slowed and pulled into the driveway of a large stucco-sided home with a red-tiled roof set on the beach. It looked as if it had been magically teleported from Florida to North Carolina.
Rogers pulled past, rounded a bend, steered the van off the road, jumped out, and quickly made his way back to the house, settling in behind some high grass that was part of the perimeter landscaping.
The woman had climbed out of the car at the same time the front door of the house opened. The young man who stepped out was wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. He was tall, young, and handsome.
And Rogers had seen him before.
Josh Quentin, he of the VIP room back at the Grunt with his own private room and pretty ladies who let him stroke their derrieres with abandon.
Rogers continued to watch as Quentin and the woman collided about halfway up the front walk. She kissed him tenderly and in return he grabbed her ass.
Such was life, thought Rogers. Mars and Venus.
They were already starting to undress each other as they staggered, limb-locked, up to the front door and then inside.
It was pretty obvious what the couple was about to do, and Rogers had no interest in witnessing it. He sat on his haunches and attempted to think this through.
What was Josh Quentin doing down here? Was this his house? And who was the woman? Was she married to Ballard and this was just a lover closer to her own age?
Rogers rubbed the spot on his head. The sun overhead was hot and that heat was intensified on the narrow patch on his scalp. He closed his eyes and imagined what was going on inside his brain right now.
They had talked to him about what it would feel like, what could possibly happen. But more had happened to him than they could ever have foreseen. As they had explained to him, this was virgin territory. It was risky. It was perilous. Some of it, perhaps most of it, could not be predicted.
As it turned out, there were very good reasons for this.
As it turned out, they had no idea what the hell they were doing.
His gaze floated up to a window in the stucco house. He had seen a flash of something. Perhaps it was the woman’s dress being flung away.
He thought back to the slaughter in the alley after his bus ride from prison. The two young lovers, now both dead.
He didn’t much care for young lovers.
Mostly because he’d never had the chance to be one.
He felt a searing impulse to break into the house and kill them both.
He rubbed his head vigorously, trying to force this thought away.
He still needed information and he had yet to get any.
He decided to rectify that.
He looked around, saw no one, and skittered over to the convertible. On the front seat was the woman’s purse. She’d been in such a rush to lip-lock Quentin, she’d forgotten it.
He took out her wallet and snapped a photo of her driver’s license with his phone.
Her name was Suzanne Davis.