He wondered whether he should set the alarm on his watch, but the peace of repose was beginning to get the better of him, so he stayed put, watching the night. There was life out there in the trees, he knew, restless and prowling but posing no threat to him. Footfall of deer and fox. Wing beat of owl and hawk. The forest primeval. Those were the thoughts that finally dragged him under.
Three hours later he sat up in bed, wide awake. He had a vague impression that something had bumped against a wall, but soon realized that everything was still. Maybe a limb had blown off a tree. But now he was restless. He remembered seeing an entire library of books in some built-in shelves in the main house, so he decided to go look for something to read. In the back of his mind was also the knowledge that somewhere over in the house there was probably a liquor cabinet. And if everyone had already gone upstairs to bed, well …
No, don’t even think about it.
He pulled on his clothes and picked his way across the dark lawn, negotiating a winding path between boxwoods and juniper bushes. The door was locked but he had the new key from Keira. He made as little noise as possible, figuring they’d all be jumpy on their first night. Easing the door shut behind him, he heard a murmur of voices from the back. Dim light spilled from a doorway. It sounded like Barb and Steve. He moved toward them, stopping just out of view. They were in the very room where he’d seen the books and, he now admitted to himself, a cabinet that had seemed the likeliest home for any alcohol. There’d been a tray on top with a set of glasses and an ice bucket.
Out of the question now, although he supposed it would still be okay to interrupt long enough to grab a book. He was close enough to make out some of their words, and just as he was about to step into the open he heard his own name, then Keira’s, which stopped him.
He could only decipher enough for a vague sense of the conversation, but their tone wasn’t happy. The word “smitten” jumped out at him from Barb, and he supposed it was true enough, if a little embarrassing. What was more disturbing was the idea of factions forming and hardening, rifts and wrinkles that could create bigger problems later on.
Cole sensed that he had altered their chemistry for the worse, and it dismayed him. He had seen these dynamics before — in poorly managed fighter squadrons, and in flight school, closed societies where everyone was hyperconscious of the pecking order and someone was always scheming to change it. The results were never favorable. He caught a whiff of Scotch, which only sharpened his craving.
Steve said something about Keira’s book agent, another topic that didn’t bode well. An interval of dark laughter followed, like the kind you’d hear after a joke told at someone else’s expense. Then the clink of ice as someone set down a tumbler on a tabletop.
“Good night,” Steve announced clearly.
Cole quickly backed into the deeper darkness of the foyer, where he remained while Steve’s footsteps headed up the stairway toward the bedrooms. Barb, the night owl, had presumably remained behind.
He wondered if she was thinking of those photos she’d left behind, the terrified boys in their bloodstained clothes. If his own experience was any guide, she didn’t really need the pictures to remind her. Those images would never disappear, or even fade. The photos, he knew, were only her way of telling others what she’d endured, and was enduring.
He heard another tumbler being set down on a table, and the sound of liquid gurgling from a bottle, the rattle of ice, and then a deep, mournful sigh.
Cole departed the house as quietly as possible and threaded his way back to his room.
It was another two hours before he was able to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Someone was rapping like a woodpecker on the passenger window of Steve’s Honda.
“Open up, flyboy!”
It was Sharpe, who once again had materialized out of nowhere just as Cole was dozing off. Cole was parked outside a convenience store on eastbound Route 50, their designated rendezvous point. He checked his watch and rolled down the window. Cold out there. Sharpe smiled craggily, but Cole wasn’t in the mood for it.
“You’re half an hour late.”
“I’m right on time, Captain Cole. You were half an hour early.”
“You said nine thirty.”
“I know what I said. I was giving you enough extra time to lower your guard. Which is exactly what happened, sleepyhead. Now unlock the doors so I can load the freight.”
“Freight?”
“You’ll see.”
Cole popped the locks. Sharpe opened the rear door and hefted a black hard-shell suitcase that looked big enough to hold a bass drum. He tried awkwardly to wedge the case onto the backseat, bumping and scraping against the door frame.
“No damn way, not with this Jap go-kart of yours. Unlatch the trunk.”
“What the hell’s in there?”
“Unlatch the trunk!”
Cole did as he was told. He watched Sharpe in the mirror, the bald head barely visible above the raised lid. There was some jostling and swearing, a lot of bumping around, then a slam. Sharpe walked around to the front and climbed in, his scalp beaded with sweat. There were only two other cars in the parking lot, and both had been there when Cole arrived.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“How do you know I came by car? You need coffee?”
“No.”
“Then let’s get moving. East on 50. I’ll direct you from there.”
“I’m sure you will.” Now he was wishing he’d grabbed a coffee, although the blast of cold air had braced him up.
They pulled onto the highway. It was midmorning on a Saturday. Waves of Christmas shoppers would soon be heading for the nearest malls and big box discounters, but for now traffic was light. Cole figured Sharpe would tell him what was up soon enough. Instead he pulled out a smart phone and began tapping commands onto the touch screen. Five minutes of this was all Cole could stand.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?”
“I’m going to show you that rare phenomenon: a genie escaping his bottle.”
“Then what, you put him back in?”
“Nobody puts him back. Once he’s out, it’s all about who owns the bottle, who rubs the lamp.”
“What’s this have to do with Wade Castle?”
“Wade is the Agency’s keeper of the lamp. Or was. For all I know, he might be the genie by now. If you want to find him, or know what he’s been doing, then you better get a good look at the lamp, don’t you think?”
Cole waited for more of this cryptic bullshit, but Sharpe went back to work on his phone, as intently oblivious to their surroundings as a teenager texting his friends. Or so it seemed until ten minutes later, when, without looking up, Sharpe announced, “Take a right up ahead, by that old farm stand. Three more miles and we’re there.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to need a name to use this morning. An alias. So think of one. I’m known to this crowd as Len Baker. They like calling me Lenny. So try for something a little different.”
“There’s a crowd?”
“Not a big one. Select company. Invited guests only. C’mon, pick something. We haven’t got that much time. And don’t use the names of any of your Air Force buddies. Too risky. Might be a way of tracking you.”
The name on his fake ID, Floyd Rayford, probably wasn’t a good idea. Too many Orioles fans around here. So, Cole thought back to his high school days, maybe because they were driving through similar country — the straight tree lines, the plowed flatness, the shimmer of creeks and inlets, peeping from the margins.