by Farris, John
Chapter 15
COLDSTREAM BRIDGE, CALIFORNIA
OCTOBER 15
7:45 A.M. PST
"That dog is still hanging around," the Assassin said, coming into the kitchen where Betts, looking weary and with dark smudges under her eyes, was making coffee. "Did you feed it again?"
"No," Betts said, keeping her back to him and leaning on the island counter.
"But you fed him yesterday. That's why he's still here."
"Show a little mercy, why don't you? He's dirty and bloody and can barely drag himself around. He might have been clipped by a car on the road. I think the breed is called 'Pharsyd Tosa.'" She knew exactly what the dog was; one of her friends in Innisfall raised them. Guard dogs imported from Japan. Rare and expensive. Someone would be searching for him. "Don't you like dogs?"
"No." The Assassin, wearing a gold silk bathrobe with a red and green dragon embroidered on the back and his Phantom of the Opera face (Lon Chaney's 1925 version), sat down at the counter. He plugged in the laptop computer that, when he wasn't using it, he kept locked up in his bedroom. After he was online he entered Betts's password. Waited. "I had a cat once. She had kittens. My stepfather put all six of them in a feed sack, then beat the sack against the well pump in the yard, just a-swingin' that sack around his head, drunk as a barroom mouse, honey, hammering away until their blood was all over his nasty hairy belly and dripping down his face. Did I ever tell you about him?"
"Not much and I don't want to hear any more."
"I thought primo nutcases were an endless fascination for you, given your line of work." The Assassin scowled at the screen of the laptop. "You've got mail, Betts. But naught from Eden, yet."
Betts didn't want him to see the look of relief on her face. Her blood pressure was so high this morning she was seeing black spots dancing before her eyes. She sugared a bowl of cornflakes, added milk from a carton with a trembling hand.
"Betts, look at me."
"If you don't mind, you're not the most endearing sight first thing in the morning."
"Oh, but you can be cruel."
"I didn't intend it that way. It's just a plain fact."
"Then make it up to me," he said, a pout in his voice.
Betts sighed. "Would you like me to fix you an omelet?"
"There's a sweetie! Fuffy in the middle, crisp at the edges, filled with yummies like melted chocolate and bits of chicken breast? Betts, my mouth is watering. Now why do you suppose Eden hasn't responded?"
Betts opened the refrigerator, took out a cold chicken breast she'd saved from the previous night's meal, four eggs, and a piece of Gruyère.
"I've tried to explain. The E-mails I send her don't go direct. There's a routing procedure. For her safety." Betts nearly choked on the last word, pulses rampant at the thought of her betrayal.
They heard the injured dog whimpering on the patio.
"If the dog is so bad off, perhaps I should put it out of its misery." He took a knife from a pocket of his robe and the blade winked out of the handle with a push of his thumb. A four-inch, partly serrated blade. A fighting man's tool, designed for swift death. Betts had watched the Assassin work for half an hour on the edges until they were sharp enough to split a thread lengthwise. "Don't look so stricken, Betts. You asked me to be merciful. I can assure you that there is very little pain associated with a severed artery. The sharpness of the blade is everything. I'm not asking you to help, although he is a very large animal."
"Just wait," she pleaded. "Have your breakfast first."
He shrugged. "Whatever." He snapped the knife shut and dropped it back into his pocket. "Pour me a cup of coffee, then. I'll drink it while I attend to nature's call."
Betts gave him the coffee. When he was out of the kitchen she separated egg whites and yolks and grated cheese while the iron skillet was heating on the range. She diced the cold chicken breast, cut a rectangle from a two-pound bar of Baker's dark chocolate.
While she made these preparations, she glanced several times at the computer he had left plugged in. A few keystrokes, a cyberspace cry for help; she could route it to a dozen friends in a matter of minutes. Usually he took a lot of time in the bathroom, sometimes calling for a second cup of black coffee while brooding over his sluggish bowel. It was known in Betts's profession that most criminal psychopaths had great problems with constipation. In fact this internal blockage had been the subject of a recent scholarly monograph. But the Assassin's hearing was preternaturally acute; Bells knew he would apprehend the light tapping of the laptop keys through the thin panel in the bathroom door. He just might be anticipating it. Leaving the computer up and running and so temptingly close was a part of the gamesmanship he enjoyed so much, at the expense of her morale.
No point in cooking the omelet yet. Instead Betts took the bowl of cornflakes she'd fixed for herself out to the patio.
The Pharsyd Tosa lay in a corner of the patio, covered with the quilt from her bed. He hadn't moved very much during the course of a chilly night. There was fog again this morning, the apple trees in the orchard indistinct, although the twisty branches had begun to brim with sunlight where the fog thinned ten feet above the ground.
Tosas were warrior dogs trained to silence and not given to complaint. This one had a solid red coat and appeared not to be full grown, although he probably weighed more than a hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds was not uncommon for the breed. He wore a studded leather collar but had no tags. These days a good many dogs had a chip implanted near the shoulder when they were puppies, with tracking information available to a vet.
There were spots of blood on the quilt near his muzzle that looked to be fresh. His jowls were matted with dried blood. Betts suspected internal bleeding. How long could he live without immediate help? In spite of his condition he held his head up and regarded her with the somewhat sad but dignified expression typical of Tosas.
She put the bowl of milk and cornflakes where he could lower his head and lap it all up. He tried a few licks before laying his head down. His eyes were still fixed on her. Then his floppy ears twitched and he raised his head a couple of inches.
Betts heard it too: another dog barking, somewhere over the hills separating the farmland from the sea.
Then the sound of a motorcycle, or an ATV. Above it, an amplified voice, a man calling.
"Pommmm-peyyyy!"
Betts distinguished two engines running at low speeds, saw lights flashing through the fog. They appeared to be driving ATVs in slow intersecting circles, a search pattern. Calling, calling, at least two men and a woman.
The Tosa managed a strangled bark they couldn't have heard. But the dog with them did. His barking became frenzied.
"Pompey?" Betts said to the dog on the patio. "Is that your name?"
"Come back into the house, Betts," the Assassin said behind her.
She didn't look around. "What if I don't?" Immediately she raised her voice and shouted, "Here! Pompey's here! The house!" By now the searchers must have been able to see lighted windows, the roofline.
"Whoever they are, do you really want to cost them all their lives?"
"No," Betts said. Satisfied that the searchers had a fix on the house, she opened the screen door. He stepped aside as she entered. His knife in one hand, unopened, concealed, but she had a glimpse of it and was sickened.
"For God's sake. Let them take the poor dog and be on their way."
"I fully intend," he said, not keyed-up or even annoyed. He gave her a soft push toward the kitchen. "You can put the omelet on now. Don't show yourself no matter what you hear."
"Oh, no no no. Oh, Jesus."
"Really, Betts. They're complete strangers. What do you think I am?"
"But your face."
"Face is Face. A blob of deadness no one really wants to look at for too long, as you have so often reminded me during your stay. And I shall remain here, behind the screen, while they gather up their unfortunate mutt. Now, shoo."
Two, no, three ATVs c
onverging behind the house, the dog riding with them perking up Pompey's big ears. He was trembling.
Betts retreated to the kitchen. She looked again at the computer. But from where he was standing the Assassin could keep an eye on it, and Betts too, with only a slight turn of his head. She gave the eggs another few whisks, then poured them into the omelet skillet. She heard the screen door open, and her nerves prickled. He had gone outside after all, as the ATVs approached. But, moments later, he was back, as she gave the laptop another calculating glance.
Voices, the ATVs pulling up outside the patio, engines idling. Excitement, heartbreak. There he is! Pompey! Pompey! Oh, God, Drake, he's hurt! And the Assassin: He must have been struck on the road. Did everything I could for him, but of course I had no way of knowing who he belonged to.
The omelet was crisp at the edges. Betts folded in chicken and chocolate, turned the gas flame low. Outside, from what she could gather, they were tenderly loading the big Tosa into a flatbed trailer behind one of the ATVs. And soon, with sun melting the fog around the house, they were on the way to the nearest animal hospital.
With their departure Betts felt a sense of ease like sleep coming over her, after a nearly sleepless night. Her trials were far from finished; but after four days she at least had a glimmer of hope.
He put the bowl of soggy cornflakes in the sink, sat down on a stool at the counter. Betts served him the omelet.
"Oh, aren't you having any?"
"Pompey's full name was Pompey's Bold Runner. His sire, if I remember correctly, is champion Kingstar Law West of Dodge. Interesting the names that the kennel club crowd come up with for their doggies. Well, I'll just dig in, then. Oh, my dear! Wunderbar. A touch of Gruyère in the egg, yes? A really bewitching blend of—" He hesitated, swallowed. "But I almost forgot! With you looking so benign all of a sudden; if you were a cartoon cat I would swear those were canary feathers floating from your lips."
"What do you mean? I'm just happy that his owners found Pompey, and—"
"I did not, of course, let them get away with this," the Assassin said. He reached into a pocket of his robe and held up the leather collar he had severed from around Pompey's neck in those moments before the arrival of the ATVs.
"Say ahhh! Betts, open your mouth and let Tweetie Bird fly away."
Betts felt the all-too-familiar hammering of her pulses again.
He turned the collar over to the smooth side that had been next to Pompey's thick neck.
"Why, what have we here?"
With a thumbnail he picked at the Scotch tape holding a folded note the size of a chewing gum wrapper to the collar. It fell to the counter. The Assassin looked at it, then had another forkful of omelet, screwing up his devastated face in blissful appreciation.
"I don't suppose there's any point in my reading that," he said after a few moments, then flicked the folded paper in the direction of the wastebasket. He pitched his voice to emulate Betts's contralto. "Halppp! I am held hostage. Wired to explode. Extreme danger. Contact FBI at once." He resumed his own voice. "Or something to that melodramatic effect. Good try, Betts. So resourceful. I am going to miss you when at last we part."
He finished the omelet in silence and pushed his plate across the counter. Betts picked it up and put it in the sink, rinsed. Then she gripped the edge of the sink with both hands. Beginning to choke in the collar around her neck, her face reddening.
The Assassin used a gold toothpick to clean between his teeth.
"Please don't have a spasm, Betts. But the hours are now dwindling down to a precious few. Now that we've had visitors who might come around again to express their gratitude at greater length, I suppose we should think about giving up this place. And I was hoping to brush up on my Dolly Parton today. The Hindenburg of bust lines, bless her heart. I'd lip-synch 'Muleskinner Blues,' cracking my little whip over the ass of some conventioneer I coerced out of the audience. It was an absolute panic. So. Hmm. Let's see if there are additional messages." He pulled the laptop to him, opened Betts's mailbox. "Well, well. About time, I should think?'
Betts turned from the sink to stare. His eyes were on the screen.
"Yes, Eden has arrived. All the way from darkest Africa. Hear my heart pound, boss, like Congo drums. There is some mechanical difficulty with her plane, however."
"Where is she?"
"Newark, New Jersey." He read further. "Not certain when she'll reach San Fran. She's requesting that Edmund Ruddy meet her by the mermaid fountain in Ghirardelli Square. Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. She will be wearing a red turtleneck and—a beaded Masai headband? Cool." He looked up from the screen. "Now why do you suppose she wants to meet Mr. Ruddy there?"
Betts said promptly, "A friend of Eden's from college, they were on the basketball team, is working in San Francisco. I assume Megan lives in North Beach, and Eden plans to stay with her overnight?'
"Megan what?"
"Pardo."
"P,A,R,D,O? I'll check that out." He looked again at the laptop screen. "She flew from Nairobi in a Gulf-stream jet? That's rather pricey."
"Eden's biological mother was one of the wealthiest women in America."
"Oh, yes. Gillian Bellaver. Another psychic of alarming prowess. I believe they are called 'Avatars."'
"And Eden can make you a very rich man."
He straightened on his stool, clasping hands behind his hairless head.
"If only I will agree to release you and go quietly on my way, clutching my loot bag. Rejoicing at my good fortune. What kind of money are we talking about? Say, fifty million U.S. cash, numbered bank account in the Channel Islands, that sort of jazzy intrigue?"
"Whatever it takes, whatever will satisfy—"
"But what you won't acknowledge, Betts, it isn't money. I have money. Need I remind you that I was a very successful lounge act in Vegas and Reno for more years than God Almighty has wrinkles? While otherwise employed. It is my status in that occupation that matters. My rep with Impact Sector. My integrity."
"Killing Eden is a matter of integrity?"
"You just close your mind and refuse to understand," he said in a whining tone.
"I understand you. I want to see Eden again. You'll grant me that wish, won't you?"
"Well, why should I, Betts? I'm not your fairy fuckin' godfather."
"Think about how—entertaining—it could be for you."
The Assassin looked long and thoughtfully at Betts, who didn't flinch.
"There is that," he conceded. "Clever Betts. To know so many of my weaknesses and appetites, on short acquaintance. And to have the gumption to try to manipulate me. Oh, mama. Betts," he said with an attempt at a winsome smile, "I hope I haven't fallen in love. That will make our final parting a real heart-tugger."
Chapter 16
WESTBOUND/NEWARK-SAN FRANCISCO
GULFSTREAM N657GB
OCTOBER 15
6:45 P.M. MDT
Fifteen minutes after they landed at Cheyenne Airport in Wyoming, Eden saw a well-traveled SUV with oversized tires and a dozen swamp lights mounted on top of and the sides of the cab. It stopped near the Gulf-stream and a petite girl about Eden's age hopped out of the front seat, her short blond hair riffling in a sunset wind. She wore soft fringed knee-length boots with her jeans and a shawl-collar, knitted sweater coat. From the back of the SUV she retrieved a Fender Strat guitar and an orange outdoorsman's pack, waved good-bye to the driver, and walked briskly with her stuff to the steps of the G-5 jet, where Reggie Lyle was waiting.
"Hi, I'm Chauncey. I'm expected. Been waiting long?" Moments later she stood in the doorway to Eden's quarters, smiling but not all that sure of herself.
"Great to see you again. Some airplane. Is it yours?"
"I don't know. I can use it whenever I want." Staring only made Chauncey ill-at-ease, but Eden couldn't help herself. Chauncey had a small nicely shaped face and large eyes the color of brandied plums. There wasn't a trace of the bullet hole in the center of her forehead, probably the last g
risly memory she had of Chauncey McLain.
Chauncey knew what was on her mind. She brushed a couple of fingers across her unlined forehead.
"I can explain this," she said casually. "So is that why you wanted to see me, Eden? By the way, who is Danny Cheng?"
"Oh, he's—someone who knows how to find people in a hurry. Kelane Cheng was his sister. Do you know about Kelane?"
"Died in that plane crash that messed up your graduation. She was the Avatar, before you." Chauncey frowned slightly as the Gulfstream's engines revved. "Are we going somewhere?"
"San Francisco, if that's okay."
"Sure, why not? We played Colorado U. last night. Couple of days off before Tucson. We're opening for Zero Body Count on the last leg of their world tour. Rest of the guys left this afternoon on the bus, and I caught a ride to Cheyenne."
"Pussy Whip, isn't that the name of your band?"
"You remembered! Should I sit down and buckle up or something?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Would you like a drink, Chauncey, or maybe it's dinnertime for you? Long trip, my body rhythm's out of whack."
"Know what you mean. We've been on the road three months. I could really go for a beer."
"Sure." Eden placed the order with one of the flight attendants. Chauncey dropped into a leather armchair opposite Eden.
"You have a great tan. Where've you been keeping yourself the last few months, or is that a secret?"
"Africa."
"Oh, right. The tall Brit white hunter type and that stunning black kid with the Chinese eyes. The ones who snatched you away while we were occupied with the FBI. I just assumed those two were part of the SWAT team that dropped in on our Memorial Day barbecue." There was a long silence as the Gulfstream taxied, Chauncey ill-at-ease again. "I want you to know this, Eden. No one in Moby Bay had or ever will have anything but your best interests at heart. We were trying to protect you, and ourselves, from Outsiders, which is our God-granted right."
"Okay" Eden said, not understanding more than she had ever known about Moby Bay or Chauncey, but in a neutral frame of mind. Chauncey seemed unthreatening, even vulnerable, to Eden. And they had been friends, for a brief time.
