It seemed to Ruiz that every time he went to a new store to try for the right shade of makeup, he forgot the exact hue of Russell’s skin and got a shade that was wrong. The one before last was a match for Ruiz’s own skin, which made Russell’s face look like a brown mask put on above a pink neck, and it made his ears seem to glow. But the new one, this pink, made Russell look like he wasn’t quite human. Since the habitual expression on Russell’s face since the accident was suppressed rage, he was scary even to Ruiz.
Even though they were sure the Fargos had never seen their faces, except, perhaps, for a blur on the passing motorcycle in Spain, the blue, or even the cover-up, would draw their attention and the attention of everyone else.
They waited above the beach, facing in the direction of the water whenever people were near, until the sun went down beyond the ocean. Now that it was fully dark, Russell felt better about moving closer to the Fargos’ house. He had brought a small backpack, like a man who had spent a day at the beach, but it held a 5.56mm Steyr AUG rifle with a forty-two-round magazine and a stubby bullpup stock. Right now, it was broken down into three pieces that could be assembled in seconds without tools. The fourth piece was a factory-made suppressor that permitted it to fire without much more than a clacking from the moving parts and a spitting sound as the projectile left the muzzle.
Russell and Ruiz walked toward the street where private houses began. The first one on the point was the Fargos’ massive four-story cube with balconies and large windows on three sides. The windows on the ocean side were bigger than the others and gave the impression from a distance that the whole place was a glass box. But as Russell and Ruiz came closer, they could see that each window had steel shutters that could be opened or closed.
Ruiz and Russell reached the Fargo property and stepped off the road into the grove of pine trees, sat down in the deep shadows, and watched the windows. On the first floor there was a middle-aged woman with short hair, wearing a vintage tie-dyed T-shirt and Japanese gardening pants, working in front of a desktop computer with an unusually large screen. Not far from her, at two other workstations, were a small blond woman in her twenties and a tall, thin man about the same age with close-cut brown hair.
And then there was the dog. Miss Allersby had mentioned him while they were planning how to get their hands on the Mayan codex. The German shepherd was what had made her decide she wanted only a halfhearted burglary to give these amateurs an idea of how much trouble it could be to keep artifacts worth millions lying around the house. When Russell had arrived for the break-in, he had been relieved that the dog was not on the premises.
Russell knew the house had been equipped with a number of security systems, sensors, cameras, and alarms, so he didn’t dare move in too close and certainly wouldn’t try to get in. All he wanted was a clear shot at each of the Fargos.
As Russell watched, the dog appeared across the big room on the first floor, walked all the way to the middle-aged woman, and lay down at her feet. Miss Allersby had not exaggerated. He was a fine specimen, with all of the standard German shepherd characteristics. Shepherds had a reputation for a keen sense of smell and fierce loyalty. This one was also a big fellow. And she’d said he was trained for the work. There would be no fooling him with a piece of prime rib and a pat on the head. If this dog got free, he would have to be killed before he got close enough to leap.
Russell watched the middle-aged woman go to a filing cabinet across the room, and the dog followed her there too. He looked as though he had been given an order to protect her. He leaned close to Ruiz. “I don’t see the Fargos.”
“Neither do I,” said Ruiz.
“We’ll give it a little while longer. If she shows signs of letting the dog out, we’d better go.” He was distressed. Where were the Fargos? He had come so far, covered with greasy makeup, hoping to kill them. They had to be here. They had to.
The dog stood up suddenly in a single motion, his strong legs simply straightening under him. He walked to the front window and stared down into the darkness. He must have heard or seen them. Now he was making some kind of racket, probably growling.
The woman came to the window and looked in the direction she thought the dog was looking. Then she went away from the window, and Russell and Ruiz slipped out of the grove of pines to the street. The two men kept moving, trying to run quickly, as Russell pulled the nineteen-inch barrel out of the stock of the Steyr AUG and shoved both pieces into his pack, then slung it over his shoulder.
They reached the ocean end of the street before the grove of pines lit up behind them. There seemed to be floodlights on every tree, aimed downward at the very spots that a man might mistake for a safe, sheltered vantage.
After another minute of running, they reached the concrete walkway above the beach. Ruiz looked at Russell, and his face took on a look of distaste. “You’ve got to get out of the lights, man. You look like a blue vampire.”
Russell glanced down and saw that the sweat soaking the front of his shirt was mixed with the pink makeup. First Russell and then Ruiz vaulted over the railing and walked on the sand.
“How can they be gone?” said Russell. “Where would they even go?” But he knew they were gone. He knew it as well as he knew anything. If they’d come here from Spain, home had only been a pit stop. They had eluded him again. They were where they could cause the most trouble, in Guatemala.
He waited until he and Ruiz reached his car. He had parked in a lot far down the beach. When he got there, he found a ticket on the windshield under the wiper. The check mark indicated he was parking after hours. He looked around him and saw the sign, unobstructed and bright under the streetlight: “Lot closes at 8:00 p.m.” He hadn’t noticed the sign when he had driven in.
He supposed that he should be relieved that he hadn’t found the Fargos, taken a shot at one of them, and left, a parking ticket on record to show he’d been here. But he wasn’t capable of being relieved about anything. This was another gratuitous annoyance, an infuriating obstacle laid in his path, in case being blue hadn’t been enough.
He looked out each of the car windows, checked the mirrors, and saw no police cars, but he decided to drive with extreme care. He knew it was a bad idea to rely on luck, or even probability, when things were going badly. If he lingered or sped off in a rage, a cop would surely come by, pull him over, shine a flashlight on his blue face, and start asking questions he and Ruiz couldn’t answer. He drove out of the lot and turned toward the freeway.
He speed-dialed the number on his satellite phone. He knew she would have hers with her at all times, even when she was asleep, so when she said, “Yes?” he was neither surprised nor relieved.
“Hello. I’m on the road going away from the Fargo house. There’s the older woman you met when you were there, the big dog, and two young people who seem to be employees too. No Fargos.”
“No Fargos?”
“No. I called to warn you. I’m afraid they might’ve gone back to Guatemala.”
“What do you think they’re doing?”
“I don’t really know. But now I’m wondering if they really did find something in the library in Spain. Maybe they had it in the wife’s purse, and he was just using the briefcase to keep us from going after it.”
“That sounds possible,” she said.
“Well, I just wanted you to know that you’d better be ready for them to show up down there.”
“I want you to come here. Can you get a late flight tonight or early tomorrow?”
“Uh, I’m a little uncomfortable talking about this. My face is still blue.”
“You haven’t gotten rid of that yet?”
“No. I’ve used every solvent I know of and every kind of wash. I’m still blue. The makeup helps, kind of.”
“I’m going to get one of my doctors to call you. He’s very good and will know your problem, so don’t hang up on him. He’ll have a colleague in Los Angeles who will see you.”