16
I did not recall leaving any lamps on and just assumed the housekeeping staff must have neglected to switch them off after changing the linen and emptying the ashtrays. I had already locked the door and was humming to myself as I passed the bath when I realized I was not alone.
Mark was sitting near the window, an open briefcase on the carpet beside his chair. In that moment’s hesitation when my feet didn’t know which way to move, his eyes met mine in speechless communication, thrilling my heart and seizing it with terror.
Pale and dressed in a winter gray suit, he looked as if he had just arrived from the airport, his suit bag propped against the bed. If he had a mental geiger counter, I was sure my knapsack was making it click like mad. Sparacino had sent him. I thought of the Ruger in my handbag, but I knew I could never turn a gun on Mark James and squeeze the trigger if it came to that.
“How did you get in?” I asked dully, standing very still.
“I’m your husband,” he said, and reaching in his pocket, he displayed a hotel key to my room.
“You bastard,” I whispered, my heart pounding harder.
His face blanched. He averted his eyes. “Kay–”
“Oh, God. You bastard!”
“Kay. I’m here because Benton Wesley sent me. Please.” Then he got up from the chair.
I watched him in stunned silence as he produced a fifth of whiskey from his suit bag. Walking past me to the bar, he began filling glasses with ice. His motions were slow and deliberate, as if he was doing his best not to further unnerve me. He also seemed very tired.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, handing me a drink.
Moving past him, I unceremoniously dropped the knapsack and my pocketbook on top of the dresser.
“I’m starved,” he said, loosening his shirt collar and yanking off his tie. “Damn, I must have changed planes four times. Don’t think I’ve had anything to eat but peanuts since breakfast.”
I said nothing.
“I’ve already ordered for us,” he went on quietly. “You’ll be ready to eat by the time it gets here.”
Moving to the window, I gazed out at the purple-gray clouds over the lights of Key West’s Old Town streets. Mark pulled up a chair, slipped off his shoes, and propped his feet up on the edge of the bed.
“Let me know when you’re ready for me to explain,” he said, swirling ice in his glass.
“I wouldn’t believe anything you said, Mark,” I answered coldly.
“Fair enough. I’m paid to live a lie. I’ve gotten unbelievably good at it.”
“Yes,” I echoed, “you’ve gotten unbelievably good at it. How did you find me? I don’t believe Benton told you. He doesn’t know where I’m staying, and there must be fifty hotels on this island and just as many guesthouses.”
“You’re right. I’m sure there are, and it took me exactly one phone call to find you,” he said.
Defeated, I sat down on the bed.
Reaching inside his suit jacket, he pulled out a folded brochure and handed it to me. “Look familiar?”
It was the same visitor’s information guide Marino had found inside Beryl Madison’s bedroom, a photocopy of which was included in her case file. It was the same guide I had studied countless times and then recalled two nights before when I had decided to flee to Key West. One side of it listed restaurants and places to sightsee and shop, the other was a street map bordered by advertisements, including one for this hotel, which was where I had gotten the idea to stay here.
“Benton finally got hold of me yesterday after repeated attempts,” he went on. “He was pretty upset, said you’d taken off, headed here, and then we went about the business of trying to track you down. Apparently there’s a photocopy of Beryl’s brochure in the file he has. He assumed you would have seen it, too, and possibly even made a copy for your own record. We decided it might occur to you to use it as a guide.”
“Where did you get this?” I returned the brochure to him.