Mick Stranahan said, “To trust yourself to a hack like Graveline, Jesus, it’s pathetic. And for what? Half an inch off your hips. A polyurethane dimple in your chin. Plastic bags inside your breasts. Think about it: A hundred years from now, your coffin cracks open and there’s nothing inside but two little bags of silicone. No flesh, no bones, everything’s turned to ashes except for your boobs. They’re bionic. Eternal!”
In a small voice Heather said, “But everybody does it.”
Stranahan tore off the blanket, and for the first time Heather was truly afraid. He told her to stand up.
“Look at yourself.”
Diffidently she lowered her eyes.
“There’s not a thing wrong with you,” Stranahan said. “Tell me what’s wrong with you.”
The wind shook the shutters, and shafts of cold air sliced the room. Heather shivered, sat down, and put her hands over her nipples. Stranahan folded his arms as if he were awaiting something: an explanation.
“You’re a man, I don’t expect you to understand.” She wondered if he would try to touch her in some way.
“Vanity I understand,” Stranahan said. “Men are experts on the subject.” He picked the blanket off the floor. Indifferently he draped it across her lap. “I think there’s some warm clothes in one of the drawers.”
He found a gray sweatsuit with a hood and a pair of men’s woolen socks.
Hurriedly Heather got dressed. “Just tell me,” she said, still trembling, “why did Rudolph lie about this? I can’t get over it—why didn’t he do the operation?”
“I guess he was scared. In case you didn’t notice, he’s crazy about you. He probably couldn’t bear the thought of something going wrong in surgery. It’s been known to happen.”
“But I paid him,” Heather said. “I wrote the bastard a personal check.”
“Stop it, you’re breaking my heart.”
Heather glared at him.
“Look,” said Stranahan, “I’ve seen his Visa bill. Swanky restaurants, designer clothes, a diamond here and there—you made out pretty well. Did he mention he was going to fly you away on a tropical vacation?”
“I remember him saying something about Costa Rica, of all places.”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry. The trip’s off. Rudy’s had a minor setback.”
Heather said, “So tell me what’s going on.”
“Just consider yourself damn lucky.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“Rudy killed a young woman just like you. No, I take that back—she wasn’t just like you, she was innocent. And he killed her with a nose job.”
Heather Chappell cringed. Unconsciously her hand went to her face.
“That’s what this is all about,” Stranahan said. “You don’t believe me, ask him yourself. He’s on his way.”
“Here?”
“That’s right. To save you and to kill me.”
“Rudolph? No way.”
“You don’t know him like I do, Heather.”
Stranahan went from room to room, turning off the lights. Heather followed, saying nothing. She didn’t want to be left alone, even by him. Carrying a Coleman lantern, Stranahan led her out of the stilt house and helped her climb to the roof. The windmill whistled and thrummed over their heads.
Heather said, “God, this wind is really getting nasty.”
“Sure is.”
“What kind of gun is that?”
“A shotgun, Heather.”
“I can’t believe Rudolph is coming all the way out here on a night like this.”
“Yep.”
“What’s the shotgun for?”
“For looks,” said Stranahan. “Mostly.”
33
Al Garcia was feeling slightly guilty about lying to Mick Stranahan until Luis Córdova’s patrol boat conked out. Now Luis was hanging over the transom, poking around the lower unit; Garcia stood next to him, aiming a big waterproof spotlight and cursing into the salt spray.
Garcia thought: I hate boats. Car breaks down, you just walk away from it. With a damn boat, you’re stuck.
They were adrift about half a mile west of the Seaquarium. It was pitch black and ferociously choppy. A chilly northwesterly wind cut through Garcia’s plastic windbreaker and made him wish he had waited until dawn, as he had promised Stranahan.
It did not take Luis Córdova long to discover the problem with the engine. “It’s the prop,” he said.
“What about it?”
“It’s gone,” said Luis Córdova.
“We hit something?”