“Josh?” he said, halfway up the hall. “You still conscious?”
“Still here,” Bergman answered. “Getting a little bored, though. What’s going on?”
“Just hang on,” Creem told him. “It’s about to get much more interesting.”
CHAPTER
69
FROM THE UTILITY ROOM DOOR, CREEM TRAVELED LATERALLY. HE SKIRTED THE side yard and pushed right through the ten-foot arborvitae between his own property and Roger Wettig’s next door.
It was a little like passing through the looking glass. The house on this side of the hedge was all lit up, with a soft golden light showing through the expanses of glass on both levels.
And in fact, Roger and Annette Wettig themselves were like some kind of skewed mirror version of the Creems. Roger was twenty years older than Elijah, and Annette was at least ten years younger than Miranda—the prototypical Palm Beach trophy wife, all set to be rich and single as soon as Roger had that inevitable second heart attack of his.
As he came onto the Ipe-planked deck around Roger’s pool, Creem went into his bit. He dragged his right leg behind him and held a hand up to the back of his head, limping the last twenty yards to one of the Wettigs’ back doors.
Inside, he could see Roger watching a Marlins game on an enormous television. His back was to the door, with his hands laced over the monk’s cap of bald scalp on his head.
When Creem banged on the glass, Roger nearly fell out of his chair.
“Hello?” Creem called through.
Roger stared back, squinting, but not coming any closer. “Who the hell are you?” he shouted.
Creem gestured toward the beach. “I was just attacked,” he said. “Could you please help me?”
From the way Roger was looking at him so intently, it was clear he had no idea who Creem was, inside the mask. Just some old stranger who’d had the nerve to be mugged on his spit of Palm Beach. He didn’t even try to hide his annoyance as he came closer.
“Hang on, hang on,” he said. He beeped out a code on the glowing keypad by the floor-to-ceiling sliders, and then pulled one open with a whoosh of air. The Marlins game inside was up at top volume.
“Reyes’s been looking good in early season play. . . .”
“Do you want me to call the police?” Roger said.
“No,” Creem told him. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Whether we’ll see last year’s kind of batting remains to be seen. . . .”
“Well . . . can I help you?” Roger said. “Are you hurt?”
“Hurt?” Creem said. “Just my feelings, I suppose. You know, you could have at least called.”
Softly in the background, he could hear Josh laughing with a hand over the phone.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Roger demanded.
“A swing and a miss.”
“It’s me, Roger. Elijah Creem.”
That was all the fun Creem allowed himself. He produced the handgun from behind his back and fired into Roger’s left man boob before he could even try to turn away. So much for the heart attack. He dropped dead right there.
“Strike two! Maybe this isn’t José’s night, after all.”
Creem kept moving. He stepped over Roger’s heft and continued farther into the house. He’d been here for a few beers, a few dinner parties, and he knew the basic layout. The master bedroom was on the ground level, in its own wing off to the right.
As he left the great room behind, he could hear another TV up ahead, with whatever Annette was watching on her own back there.