“Why a laboratory and not a hospital?”
Long fingers moved nervously through the papers on her desk. “Richard was honest with all of you about Kenntnis. He told you Kenntnis isn’t human. Because of that, our doctors were baffled. Richard thought maybe our scientists would have a better shot at restoring his mind. And believe me, nobody wants Kenntnis restored to us more than my brother.”
“Your brother showed us photographs of that thing he claimed was Mr. Kenntnis.”
Pamela drilled Grenier with a look. “Tell him. You’re the one who captured Kenntnis.”
“Well, we’re never quite certain what these multidimensional creatures might be,” Grenier temporized.
Pamela’s glare deepened. “Based on everything Kenntnis told Richard, he wasn’t … isn’t one of those things. He’s from our dimension.”
“According to Richard,” Kenzo said. Pamela wisely let that one go past without comment.
There was a tap on the door, and Pamela’s assistant entered carrying a handful of papers.
“We have you flying out tomorrow morning at six thirty, and I got you a room at the Tamaya Resort.”
“Is that near the airport?”
“Not really,” the assistant answered.
“I would prefer—”
“No,” Grenier interrupted, “you really wouldn’t. The dining choices at the airport are limited at best and horrible at worst. There are three excellent restaurants at Tamaya, and it’s quiet and beautiful. You had a long trip already, you should rest and relax before you travel again.”
“I confess to some jet lag.” And in a final salvo of passive-aggressive, Fujasaki added, “It’s a long way from Tokyo.”
“I’ll have one of our security officers drive you,” the assistant said, and she escorted Fujasaki out of the office.
Pamela collapsed into her chair with a whoof. “Okay, that could have gone better.” Her expression tightened. “I’m going to kill Richard.”
* * *
Sick of L.A. traffic and actually physically sick from nerves and lack of sleep, Richard had opted to hire a driver. Johnny had texted his location. It was another unfinished road on the east side of the subdivision. There were five cars parked on the edge of the dirt road, one of them a limo. Calderón’s old pickup truck squatted in the middle. It seemed surrounded and almost threatened by the grilles of the new, expensive cars. The driver parked, and Richard stepped out of his limo. His phone vibrated in his coat pocket, but he ignored it.
Johnny and the old man stood on one side of a pair of sad-looking rocks maybe a foot wide by a couple of feet long, their red sandstone surfaces pitted and cracked. They thrust up out of the dust like basking crocodiles. To Richard’s mind they didn’t look like much.
On the other side of the rocks were six men in business suits. The contrast with the Indians in their jeans, T-shirts, and work boots could not have been more striking. Richard studied the Anglo faces. Three of them looked both pissed and nervous. One just looked really nervous and kept grabbing at his shirt collar. Another was taking notes and looked calculating. Richard guessed he was a lawyer. The final man seemed aloof and unmoved, and Richard recognized him. It was Alexander Titchen himself. He met Richard’s gaze, and Richard was surprised at the calculating pleasure in those brown eyes.
Richard drew close enough to hear Johnny say, “This is a holy place. A place where the spirits live.” The Native American folded his arms across his barrel chest and stared at the men.
There was a long silence, then one of the suits asked, “And just how do you know that?”
The old man said something in a language Richard assumed to be Chumash. Johnny listened and then answered, “Grandfather says he sees the signs.”
“And what signs are those?” asked another Anglo.
There was more conversation, and again Johnny answered. “Grandfather says white people can’t see them.” It so closely lined up with what the archaeologist had told Richard, that Richard had to look away and produce a cough to cover his overwhelming desire to laugh. Once again he felt his phone vibrate.
“Then how do we know any of this crap is real? You’re just looking to hold us up for money or something, aren’t you?” one of the reps said.
Richard bristled on Johnny’s behalf, though the Indian didn’t react, just said in a flat, dull tone, “We don’t want nothing from you. We just want you to move this road. Leave the spirits safe and in peace.”
The extremely nervous man looked very relieved. “Oh, well, if that’s all, we can easily do that,” he gushed.
Titchen had a reaction to that. He again looked over at Richard, and this time he added a thin smile. It was starting to give Richard the creeps. His phone went off again, and this time Richard reached into his pocket and turned it off. Whoever was calling could wait.
“And if we say no?” one of the subdivision reps blustered.
Richard stepped in. “Then you can see us in court.”
“And before that we’ll make sure every magazine, newspaper, and online outlet does an article about us and this subdivision and how you are fucking us,” Calderón said.
“I’m not getting my construction company dragged into that,” said the nervous man who Richard now realized must be the developer tasked with building the subdivision. “We’ll move the road. It’s only a couple of feet.”
Johnny glanced at Richard. It struck Richard that Cross hadn’t said how much of a change to the rune was necessary. He decided more was better. Richard gave an almost imperceptible head shake.
“No, we do not wish the dust and rain splashed on the spirits.”
“So how far should we move it?” the developer asked.
“At least…” Richard quickly flared his fingers three times to indicate fifteen. “Fifteen feet,” Johnny said.
Once again Titchen looked over at Richard, then abruptly turned and walked back toward the limo. Everyone looked after him in confusion. “I … I guess that means it’s okay?” the developer said uncertainly. There were nods from the remaining men. The reps and the contractor and developer climbed back into their cars and drove away. Johnny and Richard stood by the pickup. The Indian studied the limo.
“Guess you really are rich,” he said laconically.
“Yeah,” Richard said. He held out his hand. “I’ll get my lawyers—the real ones—started on buying that acreage, and you pick an architect for your health center. Have him or her bill us. And thank you.”
A shrug was all he got in response. Johnny and the old man got into their truck. Richard got back into the limo. The driver executed an awkward K-turn on the dirt track, and they bounced down the road toward the pavement. Dust rose up behind them in pale plumes. They were winding back out of the subdivision when suddenly Titchen’s limo pulled out of a side street and blocked them. Richard’s driver let out a yell and a curse, and slammed on his brakes.
Richard leaned forward and peered through the front windshield.
“Uh, mister, you got a fix for this? ’Cause I sure don’t. I’m just hired to drive,” the driver said.
Touching the hilt of the sword for reassurance, Richard climbed out of his car. Walking toward the other limo, Richard reflected on how truly vulnerable he was. Vulnerable to someone with a high-powered rifle in his or her hand. Vulnerable to a sprinkle of strontium in a salad at a restaurant. Which brought his thoughts back to Mosi. Pamela had to find a way. There had to be a replacement for him. He drew the hilt and kept his right hand against the base. Suddenly Johnny was at his side. He was carrying a shotgun. Richard gave him a sideways glance.
“Looked like you might need some help,” Calderón said.
The passenger window whined down and Titchen leaned out. “Well, I guess this round goes to you, Rich.”
Richard was taken aback. He had expected a clipped East Coast accent but instead Titchen’s Cajun accent poured out like warm molasses. “It’s Richard, or Mr. Oort, but yes, I’d say this round goes to me” was
Richard’s response.
Titchen smiled and studied the hilt. “Why don’t you just use it? You know I’m a threat.”
“Because I expect you have a guard dog with a gun trained on me right now.”
Titchen’s smile broadened and he glanced at Calderón. “Like you.”
“We’re cautious men,” Richard replied.
“I am, but I don’t think that applies to you. You got out of the car.” Titchen paused, scratched the side of his nose. “You’re really not at all what I expected.”
“Glad I could confound you,” Richard said.
The smile snapped off. “I’ll be watching,” Titchen warned.
“Back at you.”
The window rolled up, and the limo backed up, turned, and drove away. Richard slumped with relief, sucked in a deep breath.
“That guy’s gonna fuck you over unless you fuck him over first,” Johnny said. And he walked back to the pickup. Richard returned to his car.
* * *
They were halfway back to L.A. when Richard remembered he’d turned off his phone. It flickered back to life, and he saw he had ten messages. Seven of them were from Pamela and three were from Dagmar. Making like a small, frightened animal, Richard’s stomach closed down into a hard, aching ball and ran for cover against his spine. Something terrible must have happened. New Mexico was easy. It was an hour ahead of California. Richard spent several minutes calculating the time difference between L.A. and London. It was early evening in London. Start with Dagmar or start with Pamela? The higher number of calls indicated that his sister was upset, to put it mildly. Richard admitted to cowardice and called the woman who was less likely to yell at him.
Dagmar’s assistant answered. “Is she still in?” Richard asked, hoping she had gone home, which would indicate the crises had been averted.
“Oh, yes,” Craig said. “I’ll ring you through.”
Dagmar picked up instantly.
“Hi, what’s up?” Richard asked in a breezy tone.
“You had a meeting with Kenzo in Albuquerque, and you were not there.” His COO’s German accent was more pronounced than usual, and she wasn’t using contractions, a sure sign she was upset.
And then he remembered. “Oh, shit.”
“I could not have put it better.”
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. I’ll call him.”
“It is likely to be a most unpleasant conversation.”
“Even if I grovel?”
“That would probably make it worse. Even when you fuck up, you must fuck up with assurance.”
“Well, those are some words to live by,” Richard muttered.
“Richard, you must get control of things,” Dagmar said. “Now I am going home. If you want, we’ll do a conference call with Kenzo, and I’ll try to help mollify him.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Richard had barely hung up when his phone rang again. He looked at the caller ID. It was Pamela.
He closed his eyes and braced himself.
“You are a certifiable idiot!”
“Yes, yes I am.”
Agreement didn’t stop the tirade. “How on earth could you forget about a meeting with Kenzo?”
“Because I’m an idiot?”
“Don’t smart off to me. He was angry. I mean really angry and deeply offended.”
“I know. It was terrible of me, but I don’t have a time machine. I can’t go back and change it now.”
“You just don’t treat people that way.”
Now Richard was starting to get pissed. “I know that and I’ve said I’m sorry, so maybe it’s time for you to stop beating me up and figure out what we do now. What’s Kenzo going to do?”
“He’s heading to California tomorrow to see you.”
“Lovely. Just what I need.”
“You run this company! You have obligations!”
“I know that too.” Richard realized he was getting louder and louder. He rolled up the privacy screen between himself and the driver. “I also had an obligation to keep a tear from opening in Orange County.”
“Did you get it done?”
“Yes.”
“Good, but somebody has to manage this company,” Pamela added.
“I keep offering it to you, and you keep refusing. But keep pushing and I’ll do it. And I can too. I can do anything I want with Lumina and every other company Lumina owns.” He’d expected another explosion, but what he got was a long silence. He felt his heart lightening at the thought she might seriously be considering the offer.
When Pamela finally spoke again, her tone was deadly serious. “No. I couldn’t do it. Oh, I’d manage to count the pennies very effectively, but just like I don’t have a sense of humor, I don’t have … well, call it that vision thing. You do, and that’s what’s needed for Lumina. Look, I’ve got to go. Another call’s coming in.”
Richard had a feeling it was a dodge, but he didn’t argue. It was so unexpected to have that kind of praise and support from his sister, especially on a day when he’d fucked up so badly. “Thank you,” he whispered, but he was talking to a dead line.
Then he realized he didn’t know when Kenzo was arriving. Jeannette would be able to tell him, and she wouldn’t yell at him. Probably. Maybe. He made the call and learned that Kenzo was flying the next morning on a six thirty flight, and he would be at the L.A. office at ten sharp. Richard had a feeling the sharp was a direct message from his CFO. Only at the end did Jeannette’s professional demeanor slip.
“So, are you going to let me keep your calendar and make all your calls now?”
“Yeah,” Richard said, and he suspected he sounded about six years old.
* * *
Grenier left the seven-story Lumina building before five o’clock and went to his town house complex, but not to the actual town house. Instead he went to the association clubhouse, where there was a holdover from an earlier, pre-cell-phone era—a pay phone. The television was on in the commons room, the flat screen showing a baseball game while sports commentators commented on the plays. Grenier’s interest in sports was nonexistent, so he had no idea who was playing. A couple of young men played pool. The sharp clack of the balls formed an odd syncopation with the voices from the television and the cheers and groans from the spectators.
At the pay phone, Grenier balanced the phone book on the mound of his belly and flipped through the yellow pages to restaurants. He made a reservation at the Prairie Star for two at seven. Then he called the Hyatt Regency Tamaya and asked for Mr. Fujasaki. The CFO agreed to dine with him. Grenier had known he would. Thirty years of ministry had taught Grenier how to read people’s desires. Fujasaki wanted to vent. Grenier would be the sympathetic listener.
He then went home, showered, and changed into a loose linen shirt that he could leave untucked. In the garage he removed the magnetic tracking device from his car and left it on the top of the hot-water heater. Richard and his watchdogs would assume Grenier was safely ensconced at home for the night. He climbed back into his car and headed north.
Bernalillo originally had been a sleepy little town some twenty miles north of Albuquerque. Predominantly Hispanic and rural, it had suddenly exploded as a bedroom community for both Albuquerque and Santa Fe. It now touted two coffee shops, a great diner, and a ring of expensive subdivisions selling adobe McMansions. The trailer parks and older houses were hanging on, fighting a rear-guard action, and the locals were dining at the Denny’s or the Taco Express and wondering what had happened.
Grenier drove west through the main intersection, air-conditioning going full blast to try and counter the glare of the westering sun. The tires thrummed on the bridge over the Rio Grande. Summer heat, upstream dams, and farmers and ranchers irrigating had reduced it to a few exhausted trickles of water meandering among mud flats. Coronado had written that the river was a mile across and the grasses had brushed the bellies of his horses. The conquistador had founded Bernalillo when he wintered over during his search for the
Cities of Gold. He probably wouldn’t recognize it now, and not just because of the buildings, Grenier thought as he studied the sandy hills dotted with scrub brush and a few piñon and juniper trees. He looked down at the glutinous mud and the tangle of plastic pop bottles and beer cans snagged in the river willows. Thus had man wrought. Unlike many of his televangelist ilk, he had known that man-made climate change was real, but he had pushed the party line that it was a myth. Partly because that was what was expected by his listeners and viewers, and partly because once the Old Ones returned, none of it would matter. The world would have changed profoundly. As long as Grenier could finish out the remainder of his life in comfort and wielding power, he didn’t particularly care what came after.
Just over the river and on his right loomed the massive bulk of the Santa Ana Star Casino, one of the many Indian gambling palaces that had popped up on nearly every pueblo. Why they hadn’t had the sense to build three casinos and pool the moneys was a mystery to Grenier. They could have minimized initial outlay and maximized profits, but that was Indians for you.
He headed north and left the ugly, crass world of fast-food restaurants and casinos behind. The narrow road wound through scrub and sagebrush. Suddenly lush green appeared, the golf course that surrounded the Tamaya resort. It was jarring against the beige of the sand and the blue of the Sandia Mountains rising in the east, and in this drought-prone desert it seemed the height of folly.
The hotel was large and sprawling, built in the pueblo style and actually quite attractive. Fujasaki was waiting for him in the cathedral-like lobby. The space was anchored by a giant fireplace built of sandstone blocks. Mercifully, it stood cold at this time of year. Around it were sofas, comfortable chairs, and checkers and chess tables. The Japanese man was seated in a massive overstuffed chair, fingering a bishop and staring down at the board with a frown between his dark brows. Grenier’s footfalls were loud on the stone floor. Fujasaki turned and studied him. The frown didn’t fade.
“Mr. Grenier.”
“My car is out front.”
“We don’t dine here?”
“The Corn Maiden is good if what you crave is vast amounts of meat from various animals. The Prairie Star has a more eclectic menu and the best wine cellar in New Mexico.”
Edge of Dawn Page 10
