Green Ice (47 page)

That night they went to bed early and for the first couple of hours did not sleep well. Around midnight a storm struck, a squall that drove with such ferocity that the house groaned and trembled. There were all sorts of noises—but, at least, a natural reason for them. No one would come in such weather. From that hour on they slept deeply.

The next was the first clear day since they’d been there. An immaculate winter sky, not even a wisp of cloud—but a lot of wind, gusts, like invisible things dancing.

The beach was deceptive. Looking out at it, it appeared bright and baking as in summer. The sparse grass along the edge of the dunes seemed seared by the sun.

Midmorning, Wiley and Lillian went for a walk. The tide was out, the sand of the beach darker and firmer where the water had receded. She held his hand in his pocket. Every so often, the surf surprised them, ran farther in, as though reaching for them. They had to scurry to keep their feet dry. Wiley played show-off some, competed with the sea, went far out when it waned and made it chase him in. It was relieving to laugh.

Two figures came into sight far down the beach. Wiley’s hand went in under his jacket to find the Llama. He kept his grip on it until they were close enough to see the two were women with a dog, an Irish setter in a sleek winter coat that came to get petted.

They walked as far as the golf and beach club called the Maid-stone. It looked more off season than any place else. On the way back, they followed their footprints, step for step on one another’s impressions. Many had already been washed away.

When they were nearly home, Lillian broke away, ran ahead. About thirty paces from him she stopped, in profile, squinted out to sea as though searching it.

Wiley stopped in Lillian’s tracks, far enough from her not to intrude.

She turned to him. The wind furled her trousers and jacket, defining her body, and her hair streamed behind her, so her face was entirely clear.

She smiled.

And said: “I love you.”

Her words were lost to the wind.

Wiley shouted: “What?”

“I love you.”

Again the wind blew her words away.

Wiley had read her lips but did not trust his interpretation.

He went to her.

She placed the words surely in his ear.

They pulled the mattress from the bed out to the floor of the enclosed sun porch.

The porch was heated, the air warm there, although the many hundreds of window frames were coated with frost. The crystals on the glass refined the sun into the most benevolent sort of light, no shadows, only honest contours.

“I love you,” Lillian said whenever her mouth was not otherwise occupied—and, as well, when it was. Seemed she had an immense backlog of that declaration. It poured from her upon him. She wanted every part of him to know.

Also, now, there was a desperation to their lovemaking. A sense of doom drove them like an erotic whip.

Between times, still in touch, never relinquishing touch, they lay there uncovered, side to side.

Quietly, she said, “I’m so happy.”

“Me too.”

“Inside happy, honest to God happy. I love you and I’m able to let you love me. It’s incredible.”

“I know.”

She thought back. “How did you ever put up with me?”

He almost said it hadn’t been easy.

“I was such a conniver,” she said. “You have no idea what a conniver I was.”

“I know.”

She didn’t miss the ambiguity in his tone. “I almost blew it, didn’t I?”

“You did your best.”

“I was afraid, afraid to need you and at the same time afraid to lose you.”

That, Wiley thought, was the truth of the twelve-thousand lie—when she’d held back his Las Hadas money. Her reason for wanting him dependent hadn’t been to belittle him but just to make that much surer that he went along—with her and everything. Couldn’t blame her for that. Would he have gone along otherwise? Of course. It was easy now to believe he would have.

“I love you, Wiley.” It just came out of her the way it had been coming out of him.

“What’s that?” Asking for more.

She said it ten times, ten different ways.

He didn’t doubt a one.

She brought his hand to her mouth. His relaxed, after-a-love-making hand. Kissed the nub of his wrist and traced her lips over the back of it so lightly the hairs tickled her.

“You’re definitely not a distraction,” she said somewhat to herself.

He said he hoped not.

“And I’ll never get the crazies. You’ll see.”

The future tense. They’d been avoiding it.

Her eyes clouded. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

“It’s my fault, this mess we’re in.”

“Lillian, I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do.”

She smiled gratefully.

“What do you think our chances are?” she asked.

“Somewhere between slim and slight.”

“You’re an optimist.”

He agreed with a shrug.

She kneeled straight up beside him, her knees and thighs perfectly together, her hands folded in her lap. Neatness to underline her sincerity. “I want you to know something.”

He saw she was close to crying.

“Say this awful trouble didn’t exist. Or, if by some blessing we could manage to get through it okay, I want you to know … I’d try. I wouldn’t just leave it up to hope, I’d hang in and really try to try, if you know what I mean.”

He knew. He said: “I’d help.”

The sun went.

They remained on the mattress on the sun porch. Fell asleep, after another loving, and another around eleven o’clock. Fortunately The Concession didn’t come that night. Neither of them was in any condition to put up much of a defense.

Next morning, Wiley smoked two cigarettes before breakfast. For the past week he’d puffed about a pack more than usual per day. Lillian had stopped nagging him to stop. He had a carton in reserve. He got it from the shelf in the kitchen, put it inside his windbreaker and, without saying anything to Lillian, went down to the beach.

She watched from an upstairs window.

At the water’s edge he flung the carton of cigarettes as far out as he could.

Also, that morning they went into town again.

Wiley bought a new pair of shoes. Natural-colored leather loafers by Ralph Lauren. Not cheap.

Lillian bought a hanging plant, a huge, flourishing Swedish ivy. She listened intently while the florist gave her watering instructions.

People who have no belief in tomorrows don’t buy another pair of shoes to walk on or plants to care for.

Anytime now, they expected whoever was coming to come.

They were never without their pistols, not even inside the house. Wore them in shoulder holsters. Each had two spare loaded clips. Wiley carried another ten rounds loose in his pocket.

It was comforting to keep a fire going constantly in the fireplace. They sat by it and diverted their minds to some extent with discussions. On topics such as the possibility of parthenogenesis in humans, or whether or not the world would have been better off if it had continued believing in a matriarchal deity. Lillian found an edition of
Fleur de Neige
and other fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm. In French. She read aloud. Wiley understood enough but was really entertained by the sight of her going through
Le Vaillant Petit Tailleur
while unconsciously fussing with her pistol harness and holster.

That night, Wednesday night, passed without event.

Thursday night the same.

The constant foreboding, though often temporarily alleviated by lovemaking, frayed their nerves. They stayed up later each night, and each night Lillian preceded Wiley upstairs to bed while he saw to the bolts and whatever.

Saturday morning Lillian sensed Wiley’s absence, opened her eyes quickly and sat up. It wasn’t like him to be up earlier. Usually, they embraced some before letting the day take hold.

She got up quickly, put on his shirt of yesterday and padded down the back stairs.

He was sitting on a kitchen counter, legs dangling. Telephone receiver pressed between shoulder and ear. He appeared caught in the act and momentarily undecided about whether or not to discontinue the call.

Lillian surmised where he was calling, let him know with a gesture that she too felt it was better to have it done with than be kept on such an excruciating edge.

Wiley had dialed Bogotá direct.

The person who answered, evidently one of the servants, said Señor Argenti was not at home.

When was he expected?

The servant did not know.

Could the Señor be reached somewhere?

The Señor was out of town.

It was extremely important, an emergency, when did he leave?

Señor Argenti left with Señor Kellerman one Saturday ago.

Wiley said he would call back.

Lillian poured him a coffee and thought he certainly looked as though he could use a cigarette.

That night she claimed intuition. Insisted they sleep with only their shoes off. No lovemaking. They would need their legs.

34

At ten minutes to midnight a blue Buick sedan came down Lily Pond Lane and, as though on familiar ground, turned sharply into the drive. It went in beyond the bend and stopped where it couldn’t be seen from the street.

There were five men in the car.

Three Conduct Section specialists.

Argenti’s personal huge man, Luis Hurtado.

And Kellerman.

Kellerman had a radio receiver-transmitter, a powerful solid-state type, fixed to a certain frequency. It fit easily into his jacket pocket. He took it out now and said into it, “We are here.”

The voice that came from it was Argenti’s: “Remember, keep me informed.”

That was the third time Argenti had reminded Kellerman. Argenti had wanted to come ashore and observe the action firsthand; perhaps, if necessary, he’d said, take part in it. However, still hanging over his head was The System’s stipulation that he should not set foot on any land outside of Mexico and Central and South America. He doubted that The System, as literal and severe as it was about such things, would be anywhere around this remote place. (He had defied one of their other edicts, hadn’t he—touched diamonds?) Nevertheless, he had decided not to chance it, remained aboard his yacht,
Oscuro
, in every way more comfortable.

Kellerman had been efficient in locating Lillian and Wiley. Conduct Section operatives were assigned to watch all Lillian’s places. Within an hour after she and Wiley had arrived at the house on Georgica Beach word had reached The Concession. Within another two hours the
Oscuro
had sailed from Cartagena with Argenti and Kellerman aboard.

Kellerman had suggested that, instead, he fly alone to New York, rendezvous with his men and go on to East Hampton to attend to the matter in two days, three at most. Argenti knew how much of a strain that would be on his disposition. He was tempted to use an assumed name and passport and fly along. He compromised by making the trip the longer but more prudent way. Placated his anger by promising that it was headed full speed toward satisfaction. The
Oscuro
had sighted Montauk Point that afternoon, continued around to Block Island Sound, then Gardiners Bay, and taken the channel into Three Mile Harbor. She was granted permission to anchor because at the moment there were no slips available to accommodate a two-hundred-fifty footer. Three Mile Harbor was only about three miles from East Hampton.

Argenti’s instructions to Kellerman had been explicit:

Get back the emeralds.

Do away with Lillian and Wiley.

If, without inconvenience, Lillian and Wiley could be taken alive, they were to be brought aboard so he (Argenti) could participate in dealing with them.

If it came to a choice of killing one or the other, make it Wiley.

Kellerman wondered about that last consideration. Possibly it meant Argenti still had hopes of using Lillian as planned to get out of exile. In that case Kellerman’s own ambitions were not yet entirely out of the question.

The men checked their guns.

Kellerman carried two in a double shoulder holster arrangement, left and right. He made sure the radio was on transmission before slipping it into his coat pocket, so Argenti would be hearing everything as it happened. They all had on dark overcoats and wool-lined leather gloves. No hats. They didn’t expect to be outside long enough to feel the need for hats. However, after they were out of the car only a few seconds the cold bit at their ears. The temperature must have been in the low twenties and the ocean dampness made it more penetrating. The night was clear except for a high, thin mist that somewhat diminished the full moon, softened its edges and put a ring around it.

The gravel of the drive crunched under the footsteps of the men. Seemed loud. The only other sound was the surf. When they were nearer the house they avoided the gravel, walked upon the frozen ground along the side of the drive. Some of the most reaching brambles snagged at them ineffectively.

The Conduct Section man who had kept watch on the house had diagrammed the exterior layout for them, so they knew it now, expected it to be shuttered. They went around to the ocean front and across the strip of lawn to the east end of the house.

Light showed through the cracks around the shutters of one of the downstairs rooms. Kellerman signaled the others to remain back while he cautiously approached that window. He tried to see in from one side and then the other, but the light was coming at an indirect angle. The openings allowed him nothing of the room. There were, however, voices:

“You’re making that up.”

“I’m not. I read about it last fall on a plane from London. Someone left a scientific journal on the next seat.”

“Rabbits actually became pregnant without the usual help?”

“They used electrical stimulation.”

“Bet some old randy male cottontail hopped in and out so fast no one noticed.”

“It was all done under strict laboratory conditions. And not just once but many times. The scary thing was all the rabbits born that way were females. How about that?”

“A lot of research scientists these days are lying for attention …”