Ryan and Hanni soon strung out behind Charlie again into a comfortable riding distance. She looked down at the fog far below her, the fog she had loved since she was a child, imagining hidden worlds among the mist's pale curtains. Even when she was grown, in art school in San Francisco, she had indulged herself in fantasies as she walked the city's steep streets where fog lay thick. Peering into mist-curtained courtyards and gardens, she had imagined all manner of wonders; as if, if she looked hard enough, she would glimpse unknown and enchanted realms.
Now below her hidden beneath the fog lay her own village, her home of two years-her home forevermore, Charlie thought, smiling. Molena Point was her own enchanted village-enchanted if one didn't look too closely, at the dark side that any idyllic setting could reveal.
Stroking Bucky's neck, she thought how lucky she was to have moved to Molena Point. She was certain that fate had led her to Max. To have married Max Harper was more than a dream come true. She wished he were here, riding beside her instead of home at the station slugging it out with the bad guys, with the dregs of the world.
So strange that she, eternal dreamer and optimist, had married a hard-headed cop. A man who, by the very nature of his work, was forced to be a cynic-at least in most matters.
But not a cynic when it came to her, or to his horses and dogs. There was not, in Max Harper's view, any reason to be a cynic regarding the nature of animals, for they were the innocent of the world.
Max had promised that they'd take this trip together, soon. A belated honeymoon, to make up for their original honeymoon plans a year ago, when their wonderful cruise to Alaska was aborted by the bomb at their wedding. A bomb that was meant to kill them.
That didn't matter now; though the bitter aftertaste was there. They were together, that was what mattered. And despite the perfection of this weeklong journey, she could hardly wait to get home.
She and Ryan and Hanni had ridden for three days down the coast, with a day's layover at the Hellman ranch to get the sorrel mare shod when she threw a shoe. It had been an easy trip, no roughing it, no camping out in the rain, no pack animal to lead, though they had carried survival gear, just in case. They had stayed each night at a welcoming ranch, dining before a hearth fire, sleeping between clean sheets and stabling their horses in comfort; had experienced nothing like what the first explorers and settlers had known traveling these hills, sleeping beneath drenching rain, eating what they could shoot or gather, fighting off marauding grizzly bears with muzzle loaders. It was hard to imagine grizzlies on these gentle hills; but this had been grizzly country then. The early accounts told of bear and bullfights, too, staged by the Spanish vaqueros and American cowboys in makeshift arenas; and Charlie shivered at the cruelty.
Now that they were nearing home again a bittersweet sadness touched her, but a completeness, too. Her soul was filled with a hugeness she could not describe; she felt washed clean. No religious retreat could ever, for Charlie, be as healing and inspiring as this open freedom, on the back of a good mount, wandering through God's country away from the evils of the world. As the sun began to burn through the fog, she could see the rooftops of Molena Point far ahead, a montage of red and brown peaks, hints of white walls softened by the deep green oaks and pines that rose between the cottages and shops. Soon she would be able to see their ranch, too, the white fences and oak trees of their own few acres. All three women were silent, drinking in the first sight of home, all with the same mix of sadness.
Hanni said, "I feel like an eighteenth-century traveler rounding the hills in a strange land, amazed to suddenly see my own rooftops." That made Charlie smile; but then she pulled Bucky up, again looking at increased movement in the woods. Had she heard a plaintive sound? A soft cry mixed with the wind and the crashing of the surf against the cliffs? Or maybe she'd heard only the faraway cry of the hawk? Dropping the reins across Bucky's neck, she sat listening.
The wind struck more sharply, hiding any sound. Above the pine woods a sliver of sun grew brighter as the clouds parted again. Pushing back her kinky red hair, Charlie brushed loose strands off her forehead and buttoned the throat of her jacket. Very likely she had heard nothing; she was as foolish as Hanni's gray gelding.
But no. Bucky had heard; he was watching the woods and he began to fuss, flicking his ears and rolling his eyes. Bucky, unlike the gray gelding, wasn't given to fantasies. Steady as a rock, the buckskin did not shy without good reason. Apprehensively Charlie studied the dark tangles among the pine trunks and deadfalls. She had not imagined that stealthy running, low to the ground among the dry branches and scrub bushes; had not imagined something intently following them. And she did not want-must not-let Ryan and Hanni know its true nature.
3
The lemon tree outside Chichi Barbi's window was useless for cover, and Joe had another thorn in his paw. He didn't like blood on his paws-not his own blood. Mouse blood or rabbit blood was fine. Now he had no choice if he wanted to learn anything, unless he clawed at Chichi's door and joined the party. Easing his position in the little tree he stayed on its far side, trying to conceal his white markings as he peered between the leafy twigs and in through Chichi's dirty window.
Her room was not as glitzy as Joe would have expected. But she was only house-sitting. The bedroom had pale blue walls and scarred, cream-colored Victorian furniture arranged on a worn, brown carpet. Chichi and the two men sat bent over the small night table, engrossed in the map. He couldn't see much; wherever he moved, one of the men was in his way. Both had their backs to him, so he had only to feel nervous at Chichi's possible glances.
Both men were fairly young. Smooth necks, smooth arms, smooth, strong hands. Both looked strong, hard-muscled. The gringo had styled his red hair in a harsh, spiky crew cut. He had masses of freckles on his neck and arms, more freckles even than Charlie Harper. On Charlie, the little confetti spots were bright and charming. On this guy, combined with the spiked hair and macho body language, they were blemishes. He wore a powder-blue T-shirt, and jeans. The back of his shirt proclaimed, "One Sweet Irish Lad." The Latino guy had straight black hair over his collar, and was the heftier of the two-a Peterbilt truck with legs. His red T-shirt advertised a brand of Mexican beer and had a picture of a cactus. The window glass must be single pane, because now that they had settled back to talk more normally, Joe could catch most of the conversation, which was centered on the map of Molena Point.
The redheaded man pointed to the intersection of Dolores Street and Seventh. "Little restaurant there," he said. "And a good view from inside the drugstore."
Good view of what? Joe tried to remember what else was on that corner. A country furniture store, one of those with faux country antiques. A bakery. And an expensive leather and silver shop. When Chichi leaned over to make a little mark at the intersection, she exhibited alarming cleavage. "That's seven," she said, sitting up. She glanced toward the window, making Joe wince, making him wish for the thousandth time that he was gray all over. Even among the tangle of twiggy branches he had to perch all hunched over to hide his white parts.
Well, but he was only a cat. So she saw him. So who would suspect a cat? And suspect him of what?
When Chichi kept looking, Joe began to fidget. Casually he turned away to wash, watching her obliquely. Only when she seemed to lose interest did he relax.
"You have it all laid out?" she was saying. "You're all set- sure you can handle this?"
The dark man's shoulders stiffened, and he raised his head in defiance. Chichi gave him a fetching smile. "Well of course you can handle it, Luis. You're a pro. A professional."