The Guardian (6 page)

“Maybe.” He knew she meant for apologizing to Geiler for him.

“You pushed things along.”

Ross lifted his shoulders. Geiler had struck him as just the kind of man Allie had in mind for herself, and Ross knew that had been a factor in his snapping at him. So he felt uncomfortable with her apology. “Greg had to trust somebody to get the money in one day.”

“One hurdle passed, anyhow. The whole thing could be over in hours, don’t you think?”

He could see the tension in her face. “You know as well as I do what a crapshoot this is. If Greg and the kidnapper both keep their cool, and if we all get lucky, that’s the way it’ll turn out.”

“You’re a big believer in luck, aren’t you? Good and bad.”

“I admit to my mistakes along the way.”

“That’s true,” Allie said, putting her hand on the back of his neck. It was a touch of casual intimacy that brought back the first time they’d met, months ago. “That was one of the things I first liked about you.”

Greg had thrown a party soon after Ross’s parole began. It had been just a barbecue, and while some of the guests had known Ross from before, many of them didn’t know about his prison record. Ross had pointed out to Greg that by the end of the party most of them would. “Having an ex-con work the gas grill is just a little too interesting a tidbit to pass over when people are talking around the pool. I don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Screw them,” Greg said. “You’re my brother, it’s my house, and it’s none of their business.”

Once it started, Ross forced himself through it, even though he hated small talk and was lousy at faking it. He chatted with a couple of guys he had remembered as Greg’s friends in high school and talked with Greg’s neighbors and clients. For the most part, these were successful people like Greg, owners of small businesses, doctors, a dentist, a couple of software developers. Ross could see the nervousness in the eyes of some of them and the curiosity in others. He didn’t like it, but he could understand it. Just what do you say to an ex-con?

Two of Ross’s buddies had made it. Bill Cobb and Jimmy Miller. Cobb was the driver who’d hired Ross for his pit crew when Ross was a kid. He was looking gray and a good deal heavier than he had before. But he seemed genuinely glad to see Ross, and thumped him hard on the shoulder and invited him out to the offices of the speed equipment distributorship he’d started. Jimmy had grinned at him in his cynical way and said quietly, “So, you passing muster?” Jimmy had been starting a boat brokerage when Ross was selling for Greg’s company after he’d come back from Washington State. Jimmy had also introduced Ross to a friend of his cousin’s, a young woman by the name of Cynthia Bowen, who later became Ross’s wife.

“Did you call her when you got out?” Jimmy had asked.

“Sure. Seemed like the thing to do.”

“How’d it go?”

“She said, ‘Glad to hear you’re out, but I’ve closed that page of my life,’ or something damn close to that.”

Jimmy had raised his eyebrows. “I always felt bad about that introduction. She was so pretty and interesting, I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“So did I.”

“Come see me when you’ve got your feet under you. I’ve something in mind for you, a salvaged Ericson thirty-four. Needs just about everything. But it’s floating, and you could live aboard it while fixing it up. Interested?”

“Definitely.”

Bill and Jimmy knew each other slightly, and after a while, they had drifted away, talking. Ross had taken over the grill from Greg, and other than the occasional guest who came along to comment on the cooking, he had been free to his own thoughts, free to think about his ex-wife.

Cynthia had been an artist living in Newport, Rhode Island, when Ross had met her. He had just bought the
Bon Vivant
from Jimmy, a beautiful forty-foot wooden ketch, painted a deep sea green. Cynthia had seemed fascinated with the way Ross was re-creating his life: with the image of the two boys growing up in a seemingly wealthy but dysfunctional home; of the auto racing; of his new directions helping Greg start his business.

“You’re a born winner,” she had told him. “Both you and your brother got it from your grandfather; it must’ve skipped a generation.”

Ross had been flattered. Her words soothed that part of him that kept him awake at nights, the image of his father saying, “He and I are just alike.”

In short order, Ross had taken a significant bite out of the credits needed for a bachelor’s degree in computer science from Northeastern University, and he was making money as the primary salesman for Greg’s computer distributorship. Lots of money, in fact.

He and Cynthia were married after six short months. They talked of sailing the world; Cynthia talked of capturing new images and experiences that would translate into her work.

The marriage, however, had proved a disaster. Ross was dismayed to see Cynthia’s commitment to her art fade off soon after they bought their first house in northern Rhode Island. She let the studio lease run out. She didn’t want to go out sailing for more than an occasional day trip on the bay. No other interest seemed to replace her artwork, other than seeing Ross’s own career grow.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Ross had asked.

“Kid stuff.” She had shrugged. And then told him about a new house she wanted him to look at.

Two years into Ross’s new job and marriage, he realized that he could cut the work, he could make the money—and none of it was what he wanted for himself. He respected the life Greg had built and would be forever thankful for Greg’s support, helping him learn he was capable of more than driving a car fast. Ross loved Beth and little Janine, and he was pleased Greg was earning his dream.

But that was Greg’s life, not Ross’s.

The idea of generating more commissions year after year to buy ever-bigger houses filled Ross with an essential boredom that he couldn’t ignore. And Cynthia, meanwhile, had shed much of the persona of the woman he had married the way some might shed a hat. He didn’t believe she had purposely deceived him, but rather once she was married, the things that interested her simply changed. She wanted a more traditional lifestyle, and she wanted it immediately. Her ambitions for him were narrow and clear: Earn more. Settle down. Have children, now.

He suggested a compromise. That they take their round-the-world cruise while they could. Afterward, base themselves down in the Virgin Islands for two years and charter the
Bon Vivant.
If they didn’t like it, even if they took several years trying it out, they’d still be only in their late twenties. Still plenty of time for children, for everything, he’d said.

“Grow up,” she’d said.

They were divorced, and he sailed off to the Virgin Islands on the
Bon Vivant
within the year. The divorce had left him one boat payment behind, so he had to throw himself into the charter business right away. And that suited him; he wanted to prove to himself he could make money on the charters, that he could attract the guests and make the whole dream work in reality.

As Ross seasoned the steaks and kabobs, he was pleased to find the dream was just as powerful as it had been then. The Ericson Jimmy had mentioned would be well within his range once they sold the parcels, and he figured he would go down and take a look at it. Give himself something to shoot for. His reverie had been broken when Greg interrupted him to introduce his attorney, Allie Pearson. She had shaken his hand and said coolly, “Welcome back.”

And then she moved on.

Ross had seen the assessment in her eyes, without any of the curiosity or nervousness of the others. Greg had told him before that she had been an assistant district attorney before going into private practice. In spite of that—or maybe because of it—Ross had found himself wanting to talk with her.

Maybe he wanted her acceptance, he thought.

Or maybe he was just analyzing himself too much. Because the fact of the matter was that Allie Pearson took his breath away. Not just because of the glow of her skin, her fine cheekbones and lithe movements. It was the way she handled herself with the others. She laughed well and to all appearances seemed friendly and outgoing. But he could sense a reserve in her, a self- awareness that he liked.

Toward the end of the evening, he noticed her wineglass was empty and joined her near the pool and offered a refill.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said, smiling. “You’ve been a major disappointment.”

“You mean because I didn’t try to cut my steak with a shiv?”

“You told no stories about men in showers,” she offered. “No prison riots, no revelations about God, and … you didn’t tell everyone you were innocent and railroaded. I particularly appreciate that one.”

He’d laughed. “Give me time.” Early on, he’d learned that the idea of an innocent man being sent to prison was considered a myth in the court system. Only the hopelessly naive were supposed to believe it.

“You
were
guilty, right? Cocaine, was it?”

“It was. Unfortunately, what I was mainly guilty of was stupidity.”

“For getting caught?” She gestured for him to sit beside her.

“For being there.” Ross had found himself telling her about it. She was a good listener, and it had been so long—five years, in fact—since he’d held a conversation of any length with such an attractive woman. As the rest of the party continued around them, he began by telling her how he’d been taking the
Bon Vivant
up the coast on a Florida to Maine charter with a newlywed couple and his first mate, Giselle.

Giselle had been with him for just a month. She was a small, pretty woman who’d answered his ad for a mate and cook by showing up at his boat with a picnic basket and the best meal he’d eaten in months. The two of them had established a good working relationship quickly. She was an excellent sailor, pulled her time at the wheel without flagging, and maintained an outward cheerfulness, with even the most obnoxious guest. She’d laid her ground rules early: she had a fiancé, Dermott, who was traveling through Australia at the time, and when both of them finished their six months of wandering they were moving to Boston, where he was going back for his MBA. From Ross she wanted a job and, she hoped, a friend.

All had gone well until they were docked in Miami for a week. A short series of phone calls changed Giselle’s demeanor: Dermott wasn’t sure he wanted to go to Boston. Wasn’t sure he wanted the MBA. Couldn’t see how he could afford it. No, she shouldn’t catch a flight. He needed time alone to figure out exactly what he wanted out of life.

Giselle did her work, but late at night she wanted Ross’s advice. “Is he just trying to say good-bye to me? Is that it? Or is it really the money? Oh, God, if it’s just the money, I’d find a way to help, I really would.”

In Charlestown, her gloom seemed to lift, and by the time they reached New York, she was cheerfully working harder than ever. Everything was fine … with the exception of a nasty summer cold.

Ross had acted on the sinking feeling that had been building in him for days. He left Chet, the husband, at the wheel as they were leaving Long Island Sound. Ross had followed Giselle straight into her little cabin in the bow. “Skipper, it’s a little late for this,” she’d said, but her voice sounded more scared than kidding. She’d tossed her duffel bag back into the locker, and that’s when he noticed the razor blade on the cabin sole. He’d picked it up. White flakes clung to the razor, and her face flushed angrily. “Get the hell out of here.”

It took him just minutes to find the packages. Altogether, there were eight kilos of cocaine. Trafficking weight. Apparently worth about two hundred thousand dollars.

On his boat.

With guests, witnesses, aboard.

Giselle had followed Ross on deck that night when he went to throw it overboard. And though he had told Allie an abbreviated version that night, he could still remember it all.

“You can’t,” Giselle had whispered. “The guy said he’d find us. That maybe I might get away with stealing the coke for a short time, but I’d better give up on living in Boston with Dermott, or sailing on this boat. He said it like it was a joke, but he meant it. He’ll kill us. Look, let me tell you what happened. I went to a bar, and this guy saw my shirt, you know, with the
Bon Vivant
name on it, and we started talking about your boat, and then where we were going. I told him about Dermott, because I thought he was trying to hit on me. Then he offered this wedding present, he called it, a way to make $20,000. That’d take care of our rent for a year! And I knew what the guy was about, but it seemed to simple then, to take this coke up the coast. Very low-key, he said at first, that everyone involved was cool. But the day he dropped it off—you were out getting supplies—he came on knowing your name, and I guess I’d said Dermott’s full name, and mine. And then I got so scared coming up the coast thinking about actually making the delivery. So I started dipping into just a little, to keep my confidence up. I’m scared, Ross. I’m supposed to call this number when we get into Boston and then meet them wherever they tell me. What if they decide to hurt me, or worse? What’s to stop them?”

“Let me guess,” Allie had said. “This is where the criminal stupidity comes in. She was so scared, and you liked her, maybe loved her a little … and you walked the coke in for her? Or did she go along?”

“She went along. Introduced me as the skipper. Two guys in a hotel room. One was a big guy, acted like he was bored, kind of pissed off. The other one was cold, wiry.”