Black Water (46 page)

Authors: T. Jefferson Parker

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."

She wanted to do something meaningful, but what, hold his hand?

Then her words jumped out and it was too late. "Let's go to Mexico and find a place on the beach for a couple of days. Pink walls, blue water, bougainvillea in clay pots. A good beach and a maid to clean up."

He looked at her. She saw the moonlight on his black hair, the glint in his eyes. Too soon, she thought. I just scared him off.
You 're a stupid, selfish, greedy, idiotic . . .

"Pack your things," he said. "I'll pick you up in one hour. Tim can sleep on the way down."

"Wait for me. I'll be ready in half of that."

"Even better. Would you make a pot of coffee? I'll sit here with Frank a minute. Tuck him in."

She got up and brushed the dirt off her knees, left the flashlight on the ground. She came around the grave and ran a hand through Zamorra's hair on her way past. An unexpected thrill, that. Always loved a man's hair.

Walking by the fragrant trees her thoughts split into familiar couples of hope and worry: Zamorra and stingrays, Tim and mosquitoes, love and the
Federates.

She came through the gate onto the grass. Turned and looked back at Zamorra still squatting behind the streak of the flashlight beam, contemplating Frank. Smelled her fingers. Moving toward the house she felt full. Lucky. She felt like dozing with her head against the cool window glass of a car while the radio played low and a capable man drove her someplace she'd always wanted to go.

Felt a little bit of everything.

The End

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I'd like to thank Larry Ragle, retired head of the Orange County Sheriff-Coroner Department crime lab, for pointing me in the right directions, again. Getting tired of this, Larry?

Thanks to Cro-Magnon Music for permission to put the prescient lyrics of Tom Bagley and Cat Parker into the voice of Gwen on page 192 and 268. Also, I'm grateful to Dee Harvey of the Brain Imaging Center of the University of California, Irvine, for inviting me to the Robert and Margaret Sprague Symposium. This was a heady conference for a mere storyteller, but filled with interesting people. Thanks in particular to Dr. Sam Gambhir for his fascinating lecture on molecular imaging as well as his casual observations on the dangers of using MRI on gunshot victims. And special thanks to Dr. Larry Cahill for his riveting presentation on the emotional components of human memory. Long live the amygdala.

ALSO BY T. JEFFERSON

Silent Joe

Red Light

The Blue Hour

Where Serpents Lie

The Triggerman's Dance

Summer of Fear

Pacific Beat

Little Saigon

Laguna Heat

Copyright © 2002 T. Jefferson Parker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information address: Hyperion, 77 W. 66th Street, New York, New York 10023-6298.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, T. Jefferson

Black water
T. Jefferson Parker.—1st ed.span>

p. cm. ISBN 0-7868-6804-X

1. Police—California—Orange County—Fiction. 2. Orange County (Calif.)— Fiction. 3. Policewomen—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3566.A6863 B57 2002 813'.54—dc21

2001051903

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