Hit List (Stone Barrington #53)(28)

—

Stone was awakened by the ringing of the satphone. He rolled over and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Ed Rawls. How you doing?”

“Not too bad, Ed. In fact I’m on my way across the Atlantic to your neck of the woods.”

“That’s what Joan told me. She gave me the satphone number, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not in the least, Ed. What’s up?”

“There’s somebody prowling around your place.”

Stone sat up in his seat. This was impossible. “Tell me more.”

“I’ve seen the guy twice, when I was driving by. He was concealed, but not well enough, and he had a long gun.”

“That’s not good.”

“I read about your hit list in the Times. Is this something to do with that?”

“I expect so. We left Paris earlier today. He killed somebody there, but I can’t figure out how he could possibly beat us to Dark Harbor.”

“You want me to shoot him?”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Ed.”

“You don’t need to ask. It would be my pleasure.”

“No, no. Let’s wait until we’re in residence and discuss it then.”

“Okay, Stone, whatever you say.”

“Why don’t you come to dinner this evening? Dino and Viv are with me, and a girlfriend, Vanessa Baker.”

“You talked me into it.”

“Drinks about seven?”

“Sure thing. I’ll come packing.”

“Ed, don’t shoot some citizen who’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I’ll keep my finger off the trigger. See you later.” Ed hung up. Rawls was a former CIA officer and station chief who had retired to a cottage near Stone’s house, and he knew how to handle himself.

Vanessa stirred. “Did I hear you talk about shooting people?”

“No, you heard me talking about not shooting people. That was a friend of mine, a neighbor in Dark Harbor, named Ed Rawls. He’s coming to dinner tonight.”



* * *



—

They landed at Presque Isle on schedule, cleared in, refueled, and half an hour later, they took off again. Rockland was less than an hour away, and they transferred to Stone’s little Cessna 182 and took off for the island, Isleboro—a ten-minute flight to a 2,450-foot runway. Stone’s caretaker, Seth Hotchkiss, was waiting for them with his trusty 1938 Ford woodie station wagon. They got in while Seth stowed the luggage, and Faith flew the 182 back for the crew. Seth would come back to the strip for them.



* * *



—

They were settled in, unpacked, and cleaned up by six-thirty and congregated downstairs.

“Drinks on the front porch?” Viv asked.

The front porch was too exposed for relaxed drinking. “It’s going to be chilly tonight,” Stone said. “Let’s have them by the fire, instead.” He lit the fire and poured the drinks.

“Tell me about this place,” Vanessa said.

“It belonged to my first cousin, Dick Stone, who was CIA. He was poised to become deputy director for operations when he and his wife and daughter were murdered.”

“In this house?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I’m not going to tell you. Anyway, Dick had put the house into a trust, and he willed me lifetime use of it. I made the trust an offer, and the property was sold to me. Nice thing about it is, because of Dick’s rank in the agency, they paid to have the house built to their standards, which included bulletproofing and fireproofing.”

“That’s comforting.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’s Ed Rawls,” Stone said to the group. “He’s joining us for dinner. Stone checked the peephole before letting Rawls in. Ed backed into the room, hand under his jacket, and Stone closed the door behind him.

“He’s still out there,” Rawls said.





23


Once Rawls was inside, Stone went back to the peephole and checked outside. “I don’t see anything moving.”

“He’s out there, trust me,” Rawls said.

“Would a drink relax you?”

“Yes, but without relaxing my vigilance.”

Stone handed him a Knob Creek on the rocks.

“I drink this only at your house,” Ed said.

“Why not at home?”

“Oh, I suppose I could buy a bottle off the shelf, but this way I associate it with good company, not with getting soused alone.”

Dino came and had a look out the peephole, too. “I saw something move,” he said.

“Probably a deer, Dino. Larkin could not possibly have beat us here.”

“So you don’t care who’s out there, as long as it isn’t Larkin?”

“That’s not what I said. If there’s somebody lurking, maybe he’s a burglar, casing the house, or maybe he’s just curious about other peoples’ lives.”

“A Peeping Tom, you mean.”

“Well, yes.”

“Can we shoot him for that in Maine?”