There wasn't any check-in desk that I could see. I was in a so-called great room with walls of rough-hewn timber. The floors were wide cedar planks, mellow and worn. At one end was a giant, three-tiered fireplace made from river stone almost twenty feet wide and thirty feet high. Above it was a giant rack of six-point elk antlers. On another wall was a huge bearskin, its arms outstretched like Jesus on the cross. More tree-branch furniture here, but the couches and chairs were plump and overstuffed and upholstered in kilim fabric.
Our luggage had been collected in the center of the room and was being carried off by staff. Obviously we weren't supposed to schlep our own suitcases. We were the last load of passengers to arrive. Everyone else seemed to have checked in to their rooms.
A man with a clipboard came up to me. He was middle-aged, balding, had reading glasses around his neck.
He shook my hand. "I'm Paul Fecher, the manager. You must be Mr. Landry."
"Good guess," I said.
"Process of elimination. I remember all our returning guests. But we've got three new people, and two of them are women. Welcome to King Chinook Lodge."
"Nice place you got here."
"Glad you like it. If there's anything at all I can get you, please let me or any of our staff know. I think you've already met my son, Ryan."
"Right." The kid down at the dock.
"Our motto here is, the only thing our guests ever have to lift is a fishing rod. Or a glass of whiskey. But the whiskey's optional."
"Later, maybe," I said.
He looked at his watch. It was a cheap plastic quartz diving watch. I'd never really noticed watches before. "Well, you've got a couple of hours before you all get together for the cocktail party and the opening banquet. Some folks are taking naps. Couple of guys are working out in our gym downstairs. We've got a couple of cardio machines, a couple of treadmills, and free weights. Very well equipped. And if you just want to take it easy, we've got a traditional wood-fired cedar sauna." He gestured over to a bar at one end of the room, where Lummis was drinking with Clive Rylance. "And, of course, the bar's always open."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Now, you're in the Vancouver Room with Mr. Latimer."
Geoffrey Latimer, the general counsel, was supposed to be a total stiff, straightlaced and humorless. He was also the one coordinating the internal investigation for Cheryl. That was an interesting choice. I doubted it was a coincidence.
"Roommates, huh?"
"There's twelve of you, and only seven guest rooms. You'll enjoy it. Take you back to summer camp." I never went to summer camp.
After I did the math, I said, "Twelve people and seven rooms, doesn't that mean not everyone gets a roommate?"
"Well, your new CEO, of course, gets her own suite."
"Of course." That meant that Ali got her own room, too.
Sharing a room with one of these guys. What a blast.
"Sounds like fun," I said.
15
Yeah, just like summer camp. Except that some of the campers got suites with Jacuzzis.
As I climbed the stairs, I glanced into one of the suites. Its door was open, and I could see that the room was pretty big. Ali was in there, unpacking her suitcase. She looked up as I passed by, gave me a smile.
"Hey," she said. "Cool place, huh?"
"Not bad. So, you get your own room, huh?"
She shrugged. "Yeah, well, Cheryl-"
"And I thought you'd be sharing a room with Hank Bodine."
"Yeah, right. Why don't you come in for a second?"
I did, and she closed the door behind me. I felt that tingle of anticipation down below that I used to get when we were alone behind closed doors together, but of course I banished all those impure thoughts from my mind. As much as possible, anyway.
"Listen, could you sit down for a second?"
I shrugged, sat in a rustic, tree-branch chair with a tapestry cushion, and she sat in one just like it, next to me.
"You think it's safe?" I said.
"Safe?"
"My being in here, I mean. I thought you didn't want any of the guys to know we're friends."
"Just be careful when you leave. Make sure no one sees you walk out of here."
I liked the furtive thing. It was kind of sexy, actually. If only there were sex involved. "Gotcha." Then I added, with a straight face, "I sure wouldn't want anyone to think we were having an affair."
She gave a faint smile. "Listen, about that meeting with-on the plane. You seemed a little pissed off."
"A little put off, maybe. Being a ratfink for the boss isn't exactly the career path I had in mind at Hammond."
"But that's not what she's asking you to do," Ali said, looking uneasy. "Just keep your ears open, see what you hear. That's all."
"So why do I get the feeling Cheryl's got an ulterior motive?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Can't really blame her. She's got the board of directors looking for an excuse to get rid of her and Hank Bodine stirring up trouble like some deposed shah, right? But now he and his buddies suspect their e-mail is being monitored, so wouldn't it be convenient to press some junior guy into service as your own private informer-your double agent?"
I could see the flush in her porcelain skin, and I knew right away I'd struck a nerve. I'd forgotten how transparent her emotions were. She really couldn't hide what she was feeling; her face was like a mood ring. Or maybe a billboard. For her sake, I hoped she didn't have to do much negotiation in her new job: She had a lousy poker face.
She shook her head. "Boy, do you underestimate that woman," she said. "She can handle any crap those guys throw at her, believe me. This is about flushing out evidence of a crime."
"Not about flushing Hank Bodine down the crapper?"
"It's about protecting the company from a huge legal nightmare, Landry." Her tone was peevish, even brittle.
"And if that ends up with Hank Bodine wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, doing the perp walk, so much the better."
"I wouldn't mind it. Admit it, you wouldn't, either."
"I don't really give a shit about the guy, frankly."
"The point is, if he or Hugo Lummis or Upton Barlow or anyone else in the company bribed a Pentagon official to get a contract, it's going to blow up in our faces. Just like it did at Boeing."
I paused. "Is this important to you?"
"Uh-uh, Landry. Don't do this for me."
Don't do it for me," she said.
Her voice was muffled, her head under the pillow.
"You've got that big meeting in the morning," I said. "Seven thirty, isn't it?"
She was right: Her apartment was noisy, and lately it had gotten even worse. A couple of gangbangers had begun to hang out on the street almost directly below her window, jeering and laughing and taunting each other, late into the night.
A cool night: the windows open. We lay, naked, under a goose-down duvet. We'd just made love, so I was groggy, but neither one of us could fall asleep now.
"I really need to move," she said.
"Move in with me."
She didn't reply.
"They're just kids, Ali. I'll go down there and tell them to shut up. For me, not for you."
She pulled the pillow off her head, stared at me. "You're serious? Landry, don't be crazy. They'll go after you."
"I can deal."
"No way."
I was silent.
"They're assholes, Landry. Never let an asshole rent space in your head." She got up, padded over to the bathroom, returned with some orange foam earplugs, handed me a couple. They looked like little nipples. She rolled the other pair into thin cylinders, put them in her ears.
In ten minutes, she was asleep. Not me.
A beer bottle smashed on the sidewalk. A shouted obscenity.
Inside me, the bad wolf was growling, wanting to be fed.
When I was sure she was deep asleep, I got up, dressed, went down to the street.
In
the yellow streetlight, the two BGs-Baby Gangsters, as they were called-were laughing, punching each other, posturing. Shaved heads or backward baseball caps, sagging jeans. I walked up to them. One of them laughed, said something obscene; the other just looked at me. Maybe they were sixteen, seventeen. Aspiring members of some Latino street gang. I'd learned to handle kids like that at Glenview.
I said nothing. I just stared them down.
The two of them backed away, instinctively. They'd seen something in my face.
I slipped back between the cool sheets, my heart thudding. A close call, I thought. Far too close. As long as I felt the need to protect her, I knew the bad wolf was going to win.
Ali mumbled in her sleep and turned over.
Oh, come on, Ali," I said. "You know that's why you brought me in. You knew I could never say no to you. Given our history."
She stared at me for a few very long seconds. "Given our history," she said softly, "I was taking a big risk you'd tell us both to go to hell." She saw me about to protest, and she quickly went on, "I suggested you to Cheryl because you're the only one I trust."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. She looked down, then suddenly brushed her hand along my pant leg, down my outer thigh. "You've got dog hair all over your pants."
I felt a jolt, even though I knew she didn't mean anything by it. "I should probably buy a lint brush," I said.
"My dad always said-"
"I remember. But I don't mind. It's like smelling a woman's perfume on your sweater. A nice reminder."
She smiled as if secretly amused by something. "You still going out with that blonde with the big tits?"
"Which one?"
"The one who looks like a cheap slut."
"Which one?"
"The one I saw you out to dinner with at Sushi Masa."
"Oh, her. No, that's over." I tried not to show my surprise. I didn't know she'd seen me out on a date. Was I hearing some kind of vestigial jealousy in her voice?
She nodded. "I thought you hate sushi."
"I'm not really into blondes either."
"You seemed to be into both that night. You know how many times I tried to get you to go to that place?"
"You should take it as a sign of respect and intimacy that I didn't go with you. I felt safe enough with you to reveal my true, deep inner dislike of raw fish."
"That's nice," she said dubiously.
"So, are you in a relationship these days?"
"It's been too crazy at work. You?"
I nodded.
"But not a blonde."
"Oh, this one's a blonde too, actually."
"Huh. What's her name?"
"Gert."
"Gert?"
"Short for Gertrude."
"Sounds real sexy. What does she do?"
"Loves to run. And eat. Loves to eat. She'd never stop if I didn't limit her to two meals a day."
"Are we talking eating disorder here?"
"Nah, it goes with the breed."
She gave me a playful punch, but it landed hard. A strong girl. "So, you're still working for Mike Zorn."
"Of course."
"Yeah," she said, "you wouldn't want to move up or anything. Since a promotion is a kind of change, huh?"
"He's a nice guy. It's a good job."
"I bet you still have that junky old Jeep, don't you?"
"Still drives great."
"Probably didn't even replace that front right quarter panel, did you?"
"Doesn't affect the ride," I said.
"Looks like crap, though."
"Not from behind the steering wheel."
She smiled, conceded the point. Then she said, "You never congratulated me, by the way. On my new job."
I arched my eyebrows. I can do that. I haven't had Botox.
"Right," she said. "I'd forgotten about Jake-speak. No need to say what you know I know you know, right? Like, obviously you're happy for me, why should you say it out loud? Why waste words?"
"Talk's overrated," I said. "Of course I'm happy for you."
We fell silent for a few seconds. "Is this going to be-I don't know, complicated for us?"
"Complicated? You mean, you and me?"
I nodded.
"Because we used to sleep together?"
"Oh, right-we did, didn't we?"
"I don't think it'll be complicated, do you?"
I shook my head. Of course it would. How could it not? "Not at all," I said. "So, do we know each other?"
"Huh?"
"When we run into each other next couple of days. Are we supposed to pretend that we've never met?"
She dipped her head as if thinking. "Maybe we've seen each other around. But we don't know each other's names. We've never been introduced."
"Gotcha."
We sat there for a few seconds in silence. I didn't want to leave. I liked being around her. Looking at her. Being in her presence. Inhaling her smell. Then she stood up. "I should get back to work. I have to go over Cheryl's remarks with her. So, just be careful leaving here, okay?"
I nodded, got up, and went over to the door. I opened it slowly, just a crack. I looked out, saw no one in the hall. Then I slipped out-and saw a couple of guys standing a few feet away at the top of the landing, whispering. On the other side of the door, where I hadn't seen them.
I recognized both of them, though I'd never met either. One was the corporate controller, John Danziger. He was tall and lean and broad-shouldered, around forty, with thinning blond hair and gray-blue eyes. He looked like an all-American preppy jock from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. The other was the treasurer, Alan Grogan, around the same age and height, but slighter of build. He had thick, wavy dark brown hair touched with gray, hazel green eyes, a wide mouth, a sharp chin, and a prominent, aquiline nose.
As soon as Danziger noticed me, he stopped whispering. Grogan turned around, gave me a sharp look, and the two men parted abruptly, without another word, walking in separate directions.
Very strange.
16
The door to the Vancouver Room was open. The walls and ceiling were unpainted, rough-hewn pine boards; the floorboards, smooth wideboard pine. All the furniture-the two large beds, armoire, and desk-was rustic and looked handmade. Big puffy down comforters on the beds. A window overlooked the ocean.
Geoffrey Latimer was already in there, unpacking. He looked up as I entered. He looked around fifty. He had warm, sincere brown eyes, the trusting eyes of a child. Graying light brown hair, perfectly Brylcreemed and combed into place and parted on the side. His face was reddened and chafed, like he had psoriasis or something. "I don't believe we've met," he said. "Geoff Latimer."
He shook my hand, his grip firm and dry. His fingernails looked bitten. He was a worrier.
Latimer was thin and wore chinos and a navy-and-gray-striped golf shirt. His clothes looked like they came from the men's department at Sears. He also gave off the faint whiff of Old Spice, which reminded me, unpleasantly, of my father.
"Jake Landry. I'm filling in for Mike Zorn."
He nodded. "Those are big shoes to fill."
"Do my best."
"Just don't let the turkeys get you down."
"How so?"
"They're just middle-aged frat boys."
I gave him a blank look.
"Lummis and Bross and those guys. They're bullies, that's all. Take it with a grain of salt."
I was surprised he'd even noticed. "It's no big deal," I said.
He turned back to his suitcase, working methodically, like a surgeon, transferring impeccably folded clothes from a battered old suitcase to dresser drawers. Even his T-shirts and boxer shorts were folded into little squares.
"You'll see the same posturing when it comes to the silly team-building exercises," he said. "Those guys are always competing with each other. Who can climb higher or pull harder, that kind of thing. They don't want you showing them up."
"Show them up how?"
"Outdoing them. Cl
imbing higher or pulling harder. You can't win either way. But you seem to take it well."
I smiled. Latimer was shrewder and more insightful than I'd expected. I knew he was coordinating the internal corporate investigation, but I wasn't sure whether he knew that I'd been told about it. Or that I'd been asked to help. So I decided I'd better not let on that I knew about it. Maybe wait for him to bring it up.
I unzipped my suitcase and started unpacking, too. My clothes were a jumbled mess. I'd tossed them in there in about five minutes. We unpacked in silence for a while. I noticed him take a handful of syringes out of the suitcase, an orange plastic kit, a couple of vials of something, and put them all in a dresser drawer. I didn't say anything. Either he was a heroin addict or a diabetic. Diabetic seemed a little more likely.
He looked over at me. "That all you brought?"
I nodded.
"Travel light, huh?" Latimer said.
What?" Ali said. "I travel light."
She'd started unpacking a duffel bag. Not her usual small overnight bag-a change of clothes, a toothbrush, the mysterious arsenal of cosmetics-but things that signified a longer stay.
"Not as light as usual," I said, keeping my tone casual.
She stopped, a couple of pairs of silk panties in her right hand. "Hey, Landry, correct me if I'm wrong here. But aren't you the one who keeps telling me to just move in?"
"Ah, okay." Spoken with more conviction this time. I gave her an encouraging, if forced, smile.
"Just the essentials," she said, putting the panties in an empty drawer in my dresser, patting them in place. "So I don't have to keep lugging all my stuff around, like a Gypsy."
"Great."
Her back was turned to me now, but she heard it in my voice. "You don't want me here, Landry, just say the word."
"Oh, come on," I said.
Later, in bed, her legs twined around mine: "How come you never talk about your childhood?"
"There's nothing to talk about," I said.
"Landry."
"It's not interesting."
"I'm interested."
"I'm not."
She made a quiet hmmph sound. "You're hiding something, aren't you?"
A jolt in my stomach, maybe more like a little twinge. I turned, a bit too quickly. Saw the playful gleam in her eye. "I'm in the Witness Protection Program."
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