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I was planning a nice barbecue for us tomorrow.’
His wife took his hand and said lovingly, ‘Don’t worry about it. Your work is more important.’
Not as important as my family, he thought stubbornly. Dan Quayle would understand.
His hand began to itch fiercely and he scratched it. Why does it do that? he wondered. I’ll have to see a dermatologist one of these days.
John Cotton was the assistant manager at the local supermarket. A burly man in his fifties, he had agreed to manage the Little League team because his son was a ballplayer. His team had lost that afternoon because of young Billy.
The supermarket had closed, and John Cotton was in the parking lot, walking toward his car, when a stranger approached him, carrying a package.
‘Excuse me, Mr Cotton.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment?’
‘The store is closed.’
‘Oh, it’s not that. I wanted to talk to you about my son. Billy is very upset that you took him out of the game and told him he couldn’t play again.’
‘Billy is your son? I’m sorry he was even in the game. He’ll never be a ballplayer.’
Billy’s father said earnestly, ‘You’re not being fair, Mr Cotton. I know Billy. He’s really a fine ballplayer. You’ll see. When he plays next Saturday –’
‘He isn’t going to play next Saturday. He’s out.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. That’s it. Now, if there’s nothing else …’
‘Oh, there is.’ Billy’s father had unwrapped the package in his hand, revealing a baseball bat. He said pleadingly, ‘This is the bat that Billy used. You can see that it’s chipped, so it isn’t fair to punish him because –’
‘Look, mister, I don’t give a damn about the bat. Your son is out!’
Billy’s father sighed unhappily. ‘You’re sure you won’t change your mind?’
‘No chance.’
As Cotton reached for the door handle of his car, Billy’s father swung the bat against the rear window, smashing it.
Cotton stared at him in shock. ‘What … what the hell are you doing?’
‘Warming up,’ Papa explained. He raised the bat and swung it again, smashing it against Cotton’s kneecap.
John Cotton screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. ‘You’re crazy!’ he yelled. ‘Help!’
Billy’s father knelt beside him and said softly, ‘Make one more sound, and I’ll break your other kneecap.’
Cotton stared up at him in agony, terrified.
‘If my son isn’t in the game next Saturday, I’ll kill you and I’ll kill your son. Do I make myself clear?’
Cotton looked into the man’s eyes and nodded, fighting to keep from screaming with pain.
‘Good. Oh, and I wouldn’t want this to get out. I’ve got friends.’ He looked at his watch. He had just enough time to catch the next flight to Boston.
His hand began to itch again.
At seven o’clock Sunday morning, dressed in a vested suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase, he walked past Vendome, through Copley Square, and on to Stuart Street. A half block past the Park Plaza Castle, he entered the Boston Trust Building and approached the guard. With dozens of tenants in the huge building, there would be no way the guard at the reception desk could identify him.
‘Good morning,’ the man said.
‘Good morning, sir. May I help you?’
He sighed. ‘Even God can’t help me. They think I have nothing to do but spend my Sundays doing the work that someone else should have done.’
The guard said, sympathetically, ‘I know the feeling.’ He pushed a log book forward. ‘Would you sign in, please?’
He signed in and walked over to the bank of elevators. The office he was looking for was on the fifth floor. He took the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a flight, and moved down the corridor. The legend on the door read, RENQUIST, RENQUIST & FITZGERALD, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. He looked around to make certain the corridor was deserted, then opened his briefcase and took out a small pick and a tension tool. It took him five seconds to open the locked door. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The reception room was furnished in old-fashioned, conservative taste, as befitted one of Boston’s top law firms. The man stood there a moment, orienting himself, then moved toward the back, to a filing room where records were kept. Inside the room was a bank of steel cabinets with alphabetical labels on the front. He tried the cabinet marked R-S. It was locked.
From his briefcase, he removed a blank key, a file, and a pair of pliers. He pushed the blank key inside the small cabinet lock, gently turning it from side to side. After a moment, he withdrew it and examined the black markings on it. Holding the key with the pair of pliers, he carefully filed off the black spots. He put the key into the lock again, and repeated the procedure. He was humming quietly to himself as he picked the lock, and he smiled as he suddenly realized what he was humming: ‘Far Away Places’. I’ll take my family on vacation, he thought happily. A real vacation. I’ll bet the kids would love Hawaii.
The cabinet drawer came open, and he pulled it toward him. It took only a moment to find the folder he wanted. He removed a small Pentax camera from his briefcase and went to work. Ten minutes later he was finished. He took several pieces of Kleenex from the briefcase, walked over to the water cooler, and wet them. He returned to the filing room and wiped up the steel shavings on the floor. He locked the file cabinet, made his way out to the corridor, locked the front door to the offices, and left the building.
At sea, later that evening, Captain Vacarro came to Harry Stanford’s stateroom.
‘Signor Stanford …’
‘Yes?’
The captain pointed to the electronic map on the wall. ‘I’m afraid the winds are getting worse. The libeccio is centered in the Strait of Bonifacio. I would suggest that we take shelter in a harbor until –’
Stanford cut him short. ‘This is a good ship, and you’re a good captain. I’m sure you can handle it.’
Captain Vacarro hesitated. ‘As you say, signor. I will do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will, captain.’
Harry Stanford sat in the office of his suite, planning his strategy. He would meet René in Corsica and get everything straightened out. After that, the helicopter would fly him to Naples, and from there he would charter a plane to take him to Boston. Everything is going to be fine, he decided. All I need is forty-eight hours. Just forty-eight hours.
He was awakened at 2 A.M. by the wild pitching of the yacht and a howling gale outside. Stanford had been in storms before, but this was one of the worst. Captain Vacarro had been right. Harry Stanford got out of bed, holding on to the nightstand to steady himself, and made his way to the wall map. The ship was in the Strait of Bonifacio. We should be in Ajaccio in the next few hours, he thought. Once we’re there, we’ll be safe.
The events that occurred later that night were a matter of speculation. The papers