Gone.
On one of the solo voyages on Windrunner, I discovered an island. A tiny cay, actually, out near the King fish Banks, so small and low-lying it didn't have a name on the charts. It was about the size of a couple of football fields, humped in the middle, not much more than a sandspit formed by the action of wind and sea. One day it would probably disappear if a Category 4 or 5 hurricane passed anywhere near it.
Curiosity and the fact that the day was clear and the seas calm led me to explore it. I hunted up a gap in the reef that surrounds almost every cay, large or small, eased in as close as I dared under power, and then weighed anchor and put the dinghy over and rowed in the rest of the way. There was nothing on the cay other than a few twisted screw palms, scatters of broken coral and shells, some tiny, almost translucent crabs, and a noisy colony of nesting terns and frigate birds. It was a beautiful place, quiet except for the birds and the murmur of the sea, lonely unless you were a loner yourself. There were tidepools and a little lagoon among the reefs on the leeward side, the water so clear you could see the dark red starfish on the bottom sand and the multicolored fish darting in and out among the lace and brain coral. I stripped down and had a swim in the lagoon. Later, in the tidepools, I cought a brace of yellow-and-black-mottled crayfish and pried loose a couple of dozen mussels.
Fine, lazy afternoon, so much enjoyed that I returned twice over the next few months for more of the same. On the third trip, I decided the spit-kit needed a name and christened it Laidlaw Cay. When I told Bone about it, he laughed and said, "Next thing, you gonna want to move out there and build a house."
"Nope. I was thinking of burying my loot on it like one of the old buccaneers."
"Not you, mon. No pirate blood in you."
That made me laugh. That's what you think, my friend, I thought.
That's what you think!
On the first of November I gave six weeks' notice that I would not be renewing the villa's lease. That was fine with the real estate agent: rental prices were climbing—there were a lot of new expats moving in, and other wealthy people looking for vacation homes—and the owners would be able to command a much higher lease price from the next tenant. He asked whether I wanted him to find me a smaller house or apartment, but I said no. I was spending so much time on Windrunner, I figured I would try living on her once the lease expired. Her main cabin was large enough to hold all my possessions. Surprisingly few possessions, I found when I took stock of them—clothing, a small collection of books, the brass-bound chest, a few odds and ends. And I could rent a parking space for the Mini cheap.
All the prospects looked good. Life looked good. Uncomplicated. Comfortable.
Then, without warning, the bottom fell out again.
I was having lunch alone in Harry's Dockside Cafe. A day like any other day. The place wasn't crowded and I was at a corner table, looking out through the open-air window while I ate, admiring a racing yawl with a balloon spinnaker, hull down on the horizon, tacking in search of a steady breeze. The scrape of the chair opposite pulled my gaze around. A man I didn't know sat down and fed me a lopsided smile around a thin, dark-brown cheroot.
He was about my age, late thirties, short but muscular, and hard-looking in an indolent way. Thick biceps bulged the sleeves of the blue pullover he wore. Fair hair, blue eyes, a sideways bend in his nose that indicated it once had been broken and the break hadn't healed properly. Pale skin that marked him as a snowbird, the local name for northern tourists who flock to the Caribbean in the winter months. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place him.
"What's that you're eating?" he said.
"Fish chowder."
"Looks greasy. How's it taste?"
"It tastes fine," I said. "Even better without cigar smoke."
He tapped ash on the floor. "I don't like fish," he said. "That's all you get down here, fish and more fish."
"Try one of the downtown restaurants."
"They serve meat in this place? Any kind of red meat?"
"Look, I really don't want company—"
"Maybe I'll just have a beer."
"Have it at another table."
"I like this one."
He sat watching me, smoking, while I spooned up the chowder. I could feel his eyes on my face, like bugs crawling; they were making me uncomfortable. I pushed the bowl away and started to get up.
"Hold on there," he said. "Let's talk a little."
"I don't think so. I've got work to do—"
"The work can wait. My name's Cutter, Fred Cutter."
"Good for you."
"And you're Richard Laidlaw."
" . . . You know me?"
"I know a lot of things about you."
"What do you want? Are you selling something?"
"Might say that."
"Well, whatever it is, I'm not interested. I don't need anything."
"You need what I'm selling. You just don't know it yet."
"All right, what is it you think I need?"
"Silence," Cutter said.
"What?"
"Richard Laidlaw's a good name," he said, "but I like Jordan Wise better."
I could feel the muscles pull as my back stiffened. I went cold all over. "You must have me mixed up with somebody else."
"I don't think so. Not anymore." The lopsided smile was broader.
My control had slipped for only a second or two, but that was long enough for him to see it. "I thought I recognized you when we bumped into each other yesterday morning. I wasn't a hundred percent sure, with the beard and the long hair. Now . . . I'm sure."
Outside my bank on Dronningens Gade, that was where I'd seen him before. We'd almost collided on the sidewalk when I walked out.
I said, "I've never heard of anybody named Jordan Wise."
"You're not from San Francisco, either, I suppose?"
"That's right, I'm not."
"I used to live in Frisco myself," Cutter said. "Worked for an insurance company in the same building as Amthor Associates. I saw you a few times in the elevators, the lobby, remembered you when the story broke in the papers. Everybody figured you disappeared into Mexico, but no, you came down here instead. Real clever, the way you pulled off the whole deal."
Crazy coincidence. The y factor. Three years, all the traveling in the Caribbean, to New York, Paris, Monte Carlo, London, and recognition happens right here in Charlotte Amalie.
"I've never even been to San Francisco," I said. "I'm from Chicago."
"Uh-huh. Retired tool-and-die manufacturer, made a killing in the stock market, sold your business and showed up here three years ago. Out of the same blue Jordan Wise disappeared into."
"If you know all that about me . . ."
"I know that's your cover story. I made it my business to find out."
"You want me to prove I'm Richard Laidlaw? My passport says so. So does my driver's license."
"Sure they do," Cutter said. "The way you had the embezzlement and the disappearance planned out so smooth, you had to've arranged for some pretty good false ID."
He was leaning forward, his voice low, confidential, but I couldn't: stop myself from glancing around at the other tables. Nobody was paying any attention to us. He didn't want to be overheard any more than I did.
"Pretty good," he said, "but not perfect. Wouldn't stand up to a background check. And then there's fingerprints. The FBI must have yours on file."
"If you're so sure of yourself, why come to me? Why not just go to the FBI and turn me in?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Jordan, I thought about doing that. Might be a reward or something, even after four years. But then I thought, no, why not give you a break? I admire the way you pulled off that big score of yours. Real clever, like I said."
"Blackmail."
"I don't like that word. Call it a business deal. You thought I was a salesman when I first sat down, okay, that's what I am. I sell silence and you're in the market. I'm happy, Richard Laidlaw stays free and happy, too. Simple."