"He made it official tonight. I'm supposed set up a meeting somewhere, then bring her back to Liberty Ridge. So they can… talk."
Joshua was silent. His voice was even lower now, quieter "It is happening, Dear Owl. Good things are happening for us. is coming together. When? When does he want her?"
"As soon as possible."
"The gods are smiling. Call her this morning at 8:30. You find her reluctant to meet, but not suspicious of you. She'll insist that Sunday noon is the soonest, and best she can do."
"You've been busy."
"Always. Once Wayfarer agrees to a time, the clock star ticking. I'll need to know what he's planning, where on the Ridge he might take her, anything you can find out. Sundays, the Liberty Ops training school is down. It's quiet, not a lot of Holt Men around."
"And you'll make the arrest while I'm out retrieving her?"
"Ideally. Now, has Holt frisked you since the first day?"
"Holt didn't. Fargo did."
"Well, has Fargo?"
"No."
"Have your things been disturbed?"
"I told you he took my wallet, shotgun and ammo."
"Have your things been disturbed since?"
"I don't think so."
Josh went quiet again. John heard the wind in the fallen oak leaves, the scratch of needles in darkness.
"Owl, we're down to five days. This, as ordered from mid level deities you don't need to know about. Sunday will be the third of those five-our last best window. We've played well, but our time is running out. I want you to do something different, want you to keep your phone with you from now on. Hide it in the cottage. When you've set up the meeting with Baum, an Holt has agreed, call me as soon as it's safe to do so."
"Fargo can check the cottage any time he wants."
"It's time to take acceptable risks."
"You've got the whole sad thing on tape, Joshua. Holt's firished."
"Not yet, he isn't. We'll need a warrant for his arrest. Judges frown on information obtained from covert, untrained, unsworn sources."
"I thought you trained me."
"Don't get precious on me, now. It's a little late in the game for that. We're here to flay Wayfarer alive and let the vultures eat his guts. Aren't we?"
"I've got to be alive to enjoy it."
"I'll keep you alive, Owl. You're indispensable to me. You're my secret agenda. My hidden reason. My invisible passion. Just like you were, to-"
John hung up, slipped the phone into his coat pocket where the videotape of Rebecca had been, and set his box of toys back into the ground.
CHAPTER 33
John rows toward Liberty Island, watching the shore in front of his cottage graduate into the distance. The dogs prowl the receding beach, ordered to stay and yelping with frustration. Boomer finally dives into the lake and swims a few yards before turning around and paddling back to shore where he shakes himself out in a nose-to-tailtip shiver, then starts barking again. It is morning of the next day and John's heart is sick with memory.
But his senses are attuned to Valerie. She sits astern in the little rowboat, side-saddle on the bench so she can look forward at John, backward to the shore, or to her right, where the western parcels of Liberty Ridge stretch over the hills toward the sea. The picnic basket sits at her feet. She wears a big black straw hat that sweeps up in front to form a white rose-studded wave that tapers dramatically back to a flow of white ribbon and a spray of red gladiola that dangle over the back of the rim. Her dress is loose and sleeveless, white, with lace around the neck and a wide shiny black belt. John suspects it is out-of-date. He suspects she wears sleeveless dresses to complement her smooth brown arms. Beneath the hat, her hair is free and falls over her shoulders. She is barefoot and her ankles cross as she turns and looks back at the dogs. To John she is a riddle of the known and the unknowable, familiar as a sister but exotic as an orchid.
"Where's your six-gun?"
"Hanging on my bed post. Like my dress?"
"It's nice."
"It's the one my mother wore the day you saw her. It took a while, but I found it."
"Why would she keep it?"
"She's always been sentimental about things she wore when she was happy. Has closets full of clothes. A couple of months ago she cut her wedding dress up the back with pinking shears and put it on for dinner. Anyway, I thought you might like to see this one again."
"It's becoming."
The blush again. The smile. "It's becoming difficult to take my eyes off of you, John Menden."
"Then it's good I'm the one rowing. What's for breakfast?"
"A surprise."
"Do you use the computer in your room much?"
She looks at him quizzically, her brown eyes seeming to take in, then release him. "Not since I graduated. I talk to Dad or the Ops guys, if I'm doing work for him. I did my vet school applications on it. Why?"
"I've been getting some odd mail. Little taunts and jabs. Things to let me know I'm being watched. No sender, of course."
"Dad's a prankster, believe it or not."
"Doesn't sound like him."
"Lane would pester you because that's his job and his character. Could be Snakey or Partch-one of Lane's goons. Snakey's supposed to be MIA but I don't believe it."
"What about Sexton?"
"Well, he's linked up. Works from home, mostly. It's not me, if that's what you're asking."
John feels the sand sliding up under the hull, then the abrupt stop. The stern drifts as he climbs out, pulls the rowboat in a little farther and helps Valerie unload the basket, then herself. With one hand she bunches her dress up over her knees and with the other she reaches to John. He leads her through the ankle-deep water to the beach.
"Let's walk around the island," she says. "Work up an appetite. Find a good spot to eat.
"She hangs onto his hand-and he hangs onto hers-as they set out around this inner shore. Emerging from the shade of the giant Norfolk Island pine, John feels the thin warm sunlight on his back and smells the rare Orange County aroma of sagebrush and fresh water. John has the basket. The rim of Valerie's hat touches John's neck when they get close, so she takes it off an carries it. She walks closer to him and he can feel the heat and softness of her bare arm as it presses against his own.
"You seem tired."
"Your dad kept me up late."
"How did it go?"
"We cuffed six home invaders in about thirty seconds. You father blew a kid's hand off, then one of the Men blasted the rest of them with twelve-gauge beach sand. When the lights went on the Bolsa Cobras looked like gophers caught above ground."
"Do you find that impressive?"
"The kid with no hand did. How involved are you?"
"Well… Dad's been trying to get me on board for about; year now. He supported my college, but he's less enthused about me practicing veterinary than helping him run the Ops. He': made no secret of it-he'd like me to run the business when he': too old."
When the final bills come due, John thinks. Sooner than she knows?
"You're not tempted?"
"Tempted, maybe. I'd like to please him. But I can't say that security and privatized law enforcement really turn this girl on It would be years before he really needed me. I could practice veterinary, think about it. More to the point is, I don't approve of blowing off people's hands."
"There's that."
"And that's why I'm taking my time."
"He must make lots of money."
"It's unbelievable. The Ops is international, you know. We just inked a deal with the Ugandan Development Ministry. What they're developing is a SWAT team to kick tribal butt fast and hard. It's a three-million dollar deal over time. But the foreign stuff is just kind of glamorous. The high-tech industrial accounts we have in Irvine alone account for a million a year. That's not including personal security and investigations."