Mr. Clarinet

CARVER'S BEACH HOUSE overlooked a tiny scrap of paradise—a small but utterly beautiful white-sand beach, hidden away deep in a cove of dark rock, surrounded by mountains on one side and postcard-perfect blue ocean on the other.

Max had watched from above as Huxley and two women had gotten into a speedboat moored off a jetty and gone off water-skiing. Then he'd walked over to the house.

* * *

The house—a Spanish-style villa of the kind semiwealthy expats bought as retirement or holiday homes in Miami—was surrounded by a thick, twenty-foot-high cement wall, topped with spikes, broken glass, and razor wire. Yet when Max pushed the metal double gate, it opened wide onto a paved courtyard, swimming pool, and deck chairs. Under normal circumstances, there was no need to close it. They were perfectly isolated amid an area of small, white, chalky rocks, tufts of wild grass, cacti, and barren coconut trees with yellow-green leaves.

He stepped inside and pushed the gate shut.

* * *

There was one other person Allain Carver loved as much, or possibly even a little more, than himself—his mother. There was a shrine to her in the corner of the living room, a slab of gleaming polished granite inlaid with her black-and-white photograph—a professionally shot studio portrait making her look glamorous and distant, a star in her own universe. Her name and dates of birth and death were stamped below her image and gone over in gold leaf. The shrine was completed with a small pool, in which several round purple candles floated.

All the other pictures in the house—hung on the walls or placed on furniture—were of Allain, from his late teens on. Max was surprised to see snaps of a man who looked like the most strenuous physical activity he'd ever undertaken was walking to and from his car, surfing, white-water rafting, hang-gliding, mountain climbing, parachuting, bungee jumping, and rappelling. Carver was grinning broadly in every photograph, clearly in his element in each of them, living life to the full and as close to the edge as he could take it.

Max realized how little he'd known Allain, how much he'd been taken in by him, and whom he'd been up against. This was a side of him people didn't know or even suspect he had. Here, alone, Allain Carver had truly been himself.

The rest of the living room was minimally furnished. A dining table was placed near the back window, overlooking a veranda and then the sea, no doubt perfect for intimate sunset dinners. There were only two chairs, facing each other at either end of the table. At the opposite end of the room, facing the gate and pool, was a leather sofa and a wall-mounted TV screen, with a chrome-and-wood coffee table in between. A four-shelf bookcase, lined with everything from leather-bound encyclopedias to gay erotic fiction took up an entire wall, while a solitary island of two reclining easy chairs, a lamp, and another table stood in the middle of the room. There was a CD player with a curving rack filled with music, most of it classical.

The house reeked of stale cigarettes, cold reefer, and perfume.

Max checked for weapons and found an eight-shot Smith & Wesson revolver taped under the dining table. He emptied the shells into his pocket.

He checked out the kitchen, which was to the left. There was a fridge and freezer, both well stocked with food, the fridge full of fresh produce—plenty of salad and fruit. He found a bottle of water and drank half of it. There were stacks of well-thumbed cookbooks and a folder of recipes cut from magazines, in a corner on the shelves. The dishwasher was on.

He found another revolver on top of the fridge. He removed the shells.

He crossed back out through the living room. The bathroom was spacious, with a sunken tub and a shower, plenty of toiletries, both male and female. Next he went to the master bedroom—dominated by a king-size bed with a brass-rail bedstead. It had the same great view of the sea and the horizon as the living room. He could see the speedboat pulling a skier. The bed was unmade. Clothes were strewn on the floor—mostly women's.

There was a revolver in the nightstand. He added the shells to his collection.

He went into the first guest bedroom and found it completely empty except for a blue Globetrotter suitcase and matching overnight bag placed side-by-side near the door. The suitcase was padlocked shut. Max opened the bag and found a British Airways one-way first-class ticket to London from Santo Domingo, dated January 4—the next day. In a side pocket, he found a British passport belonging to Stuart Boyle.

The photograph inside was of the man he'd known as Shawn Huxley.

Huxley's appearance had changed a little—he'd lost the mustache and his hair had grown out to a short afro. He looked mature. He was smiling at the camera.

The house felt empty. It was quiet. He couldn't even hear the waves.