"Yeah, no kidding," he said. "I deserved that. Okay."
"You had me for a second."
"Things are complicated."
"No, they're simple, Damon. Do me a favor. Take this drink to Dad."
Reese took the drink, glancing down at his soda-blasted Aloha shirt. "Let's start over."
"Let's drop it and go outside."
"I absolutely want to see you again. Bring the soda bottle if you want."
He smiled and took a step toward her.
"Damon, you're a real punk."
Something in Reese took this as a compliment. He gave her conspiratorial grin and walked away with the drink.
It was then that she noticed that Mike had put Reese's bouquet in a vase on the breakfast table by her purse. The flowers were arranged upside down, blossoms drowning at the bottom, and the stiff green stems with their white supermarket tie jutting from the top.
Boys, she thought: my favorite ages are two to forty.
She sat down and looked through the window at Zamorra while he pondered the coals. She had not yet seen him place a call to Kirsten. Reese sat in the shade, examining his soaked shirt. Clark was where she had left him, fresh drink in hand. Mike and the boys were coming through the gate, back into the yard. A pink house on a white beach in Mexico, she thought: Tim and Hess and me.
She picked the office mail out of her purse and fanned through it quickly until her eye caught an interesting return name and address: Sean Moss, La Jolla.
Dr. Sean, she thought: surf dude, biochemical researcher, entrepreneur, friend and smitten admirer of Gwen Wildcraft, coward. She noted the post date-the same day they'd seen him at his mansion overlooking the ocean.
She opened it and read the handwritten note.
Sergeant Rayborn-I should have handed you this when you were here. It doesn't really contain anything I didn't tell you, but it's personal and physical and I felt at the time that it shouldn't go into a murder file. In fact I should have handed it to someone back when it might have done some good. I had no idea that all of our hard work could lead to this. I'm leaving for a surf camp on Tavarua tomorrow, and won't be gettable for three months. The BD present she refers to was a disc she'd made of her songs-SM
The attached letter was postmarked on August 20, Gwen Wildcraft's birthday:
Dear Sean,
I'm truly happy to know you've found someone to love, and earned the fifty million it will take to keep her happy. Just kidding. All's fine here. Archie's working hard, ready to move off patrol this year sometime, we hope. The home is just beautiful, many improvements since you saw it. Sick, and I love it. I was completely horrified to find Al and Sonny waiting by my car yesterday in the grocery store parking lot when I came out. Told me to keep my mouth shut about serum problems I might have known about. Those random weirdos actually threatened to report MB to the PTC for not divulging the sidewinder problem unless.. get this… unless I came back to work for their latest company, some silicon molecule engineering start-up in Irvine. Apeman said they needed a "money-maker cover girl." Made it sound like he was recruiting a whore, sure looked at me that way. They said they'd pay me twelve an hour to do what I did for you. I told them to quit leaning on my new Dodge and get out of my life immediately or I'd report THEM to the FTC, the FBI, the INS, and the Centers for Disease Control. They didn't laugh at that. They never took one word I said at OrganiVen seriously. Hey, I'm 26 today! Here's my BD present to you. It's my day, so I can do what I feel like, right? Talk soon, Gwen
Rayborn sighed and read it again. There it was, a bluff called with three bullets. A threat that cost three lives, two eyes and countless sorrows. Gwen had fallen once, but she wouldn't fall twice. Her mistake was not going to the Bureau or the Sheriff's. Would that have mattered? Maybe not. It had taken Al and Sonny less than twenty-four hours to execute her.
All for the good life, Merci thought. All for the extra stuff when you already have enough. She pictured the Wildcraft home-beautiful and empty.
She put the letter back and looked through the window again her own life-somewhat chaotic at the moment, but very full. Her heart was beating hard and strong, a beat of sadness for Archie and Gwen, then a beat of promise for everyone left standing.
After dinner Mike had a third martini and passed out on the couch. An hour later Merci woke him up, told him that Clark would give him and Danny a lift home. Mike looked at her blearily, then at Zamorra, finishing up the dishes. She thanked him for coming-the wine, worms, just fantastic. She hugged him and told him his flower arrangement was right on, too. He smiled and stumbled just a little on his way out the door.
A few minutes later she carried Tim to his room, read to him and felt him melt into sleep in her arms.
She came back out to find that Reese had put on some music and poured more wine for himself. He offered Merci a series of winning smiles.
When her father got back, he said he was beat and went to his room. Damon asked Merci to dance but she just wasn't up for it. Then Damon got loud and Zamorra told him to leave. There was a moment of fight or flight but Reese put up his hands in mock surrender and headed out.
Zamorra thanked her for the evening and put on his coat.
"Wait," she said. "Let's take a walk."
"I'd like to."
She got a flashlight and led Zamorra across the cool grass, through the gate, and down the path along the grove. Her thoughts were a little unusual from the gin and the good wine at dinner. The moon was nearly full, dropping a faint silver light to the leaf tops. Merci raised her nose just a little to let in the stinging fresh smell of the citrus.
"I've got someone I'd like you to meet," she said. She hadn't fully decided that she could go through with this but now the sentence hung in the air, blatant and tactile, like a spider at the end of a strand.
"I could have put my tie back on," said Zamorra.
"It's casual, Paul."
"I made Mike's extra strong. Sorry."
"It's okay. He ODs kind of easy."
She led him across the weeds of the back lot, to the cinder blocks and the floss-tethered tumbleweeds. When she lifted the plywood she caught Zamorra's mute surprise that the weeds were attached. He pitched in and helped her set the sheets against the garage.
"Bubble wrap?"
"You'll see."
She knelt and set the wrap aside, dirt digging into her bare knees. Then she shined the light in.
"This is Frank."
"I'll be damned."
"I found him here. He's from Spain. He's real."
"He looks real."
"I make him for law enforcement. The sword, mainly, a trabuco, which was an early gun, but his department kept his weapon after Francisco bought the farm. I really don't know. It's speculative."
"Seems possible."
"What do you think of him?"
"He's well grounded."
She laughed quietly. "Hess said alone."
"That comes to mind too."
Zamorra continued to look down. He was squatting with his on his knees and his chin on his fists, the way Tim did.
"Kirsten is a lot like him."
Merci was about to make a crack about both having tiny skulls when she felt the sweet awakening of becoming unfooled. "No."
"Yeah."
"You're really kidding."
"I made her up."
"Why?"
"To keep myself away from you."
She almost said something like this changes things, but for once she calculated her words against the situation and kept her mouth closed.
"I wanted to be more than just a furious widower," he said were too many dangling nerves."
"Man, I know that feeling."
"I know you do. I admired the way you bulled right through bad things that happened to you. I loitered around mine. When I saw you and Wildcraft today I understood how strong you are. And how tired I was of self-pity. Thank you."